


Falling Hazard

by NotASpaceAlien



Series: Your Own Side [5]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-18
Updated: 2017-09-04
Packaged: 2018-11-15 17:58:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 100,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11236251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotASpaceAlien/pseuds/NotASpaceAlien
Summary: Tensions in Creation finally boil over as angels go missing, Hell launches an apparent attack, and Heaven is in danger of losing its most powerful weapon.





	1. Vacation, Interrupted

**Author's Note:**

> On tumblr at http://not-a-space-alien.tumblr.com/post/161975333515/falling-hazard-part-1-vacation-interrupted

* * *

The archangel Metatron was created to do what God told them, not to make decisions.  It was not in their programming.  It was very easy to confuse poor Metatron because they had not been created with much in the way of critical thinking skills. Rules were a comfort for them.

So they were very, very irritated to be put in a position where they would have to make a decision, and an important one at that.

Aziraphale’s brief speech to the Metatron about the Great, Ineffable Plan had seeded doubt in their mind that they would never acknowledge aloud.  It had made them realize that questioning was not only possible, but might be necessary.

And it had made them realize they  _would_ have to make a decision, or risk catastrophe on an unimaginable scale.

The door to Heaven’s throne room boomed shut behind them, silencing the overwhelming sounds behind it.  The Metatron scurried away from it as fast as they could.

The archangel Gabriel was waiting to receive them as they exited.  “Metatron.”

The other archangel testily motioned for Gabriel not to block the way, and the two fell in step to walk in the courtyard, the Metatron’s feet setting an agitated pace.

“Can He hear us out here?” Gabriel said softly.

“No,” said the Metatron.

“How is He?”

“He is still throwing a tantrum about Aziraphale.”

“ _Still?_  How long has it been?”

“Too long.  We only managed to placate Him by telling Him we’d have Uriel start the preparations for casting Aziraphale out of Heaven.”

“What?” said Gabriel. “Well…when are we going to do that?”

“We are not going to!” Metatron exploded. “Aziraphale hasn’t done anything fundamentally worse than what half our principalities do on a regular basis.  Heaven doesn’t have time to waste on punishing one because he was unfortunate enough to catch His attention.”

Gabriel leaned in towards Metatron and whispered, “But…  You lied to Him?”

“If every angel who did something that annoyed Him were cast out, most of the garrison would be gone,” snapped the Metatron.  “The current falling hazard we need to worry about is someone _slightly_ more important than Aziraphale.  We’re on the verge of the unthinkable and He’s caught up in symbolism.  As always.  The archangels have to move on our own.  We are running out of time.”

“I thought with Camael not making all that fuss anymore, we were going to be on track again.”

“Apparently not.  He is getting worse.”

“We can’t cast Aziraphale out and be done with it?  Would that fix anything?”

“Nothing at all.  And Raphael would fight that tooth and nail, not to mention Victoria, if she’s filling the archangel position like you insist.”

“We’ve discussed that already.”

“I still think Jeremiah would be a better candidate—”

“The new archangel _has_ to be warrior class,” Gabriel iterated. “Or we’re putting ourselves in a position to be royally fucked.”

“She would be filling the position of overseer of divine affairs on Earth.  That’s a clerical position.”

“She filled in Camael’s job respectably for a few weeks after he fell.”

“A warrior. In a clerical position.  It is improper.  And against protocol.”

“No warrior class archangel.  Picture it.”

“There has never _been_ any other warrior-class archangel besides Michael,” Metatron chimed irately.  “We do not know how that would work or if she could replace Michael.”

“ _No warrior class archangel,_ Metatron.  In an all-out war against Hell.”

Metatron grimaced.

“I see your point, though,” said Gabriel.  “It would be a fiasco to try and hold a tribunal for falling right now.  I guess Aziraphale is going to get one more lucky break.  What should we be focusing on?  We’re off script worse than ever.”

The Metatron was silent, resenting what was expected of them.

“The Voice of God.  Tell me what needs to happen.”

“We need the War,” Metatron finally answered.  “Damn Raphael, damn Aziraphale, and damn Maltha.”

“ _Her,_ ” said Gabriel.  “We took her human pet and she still refuses to engage us.”

“We told you that wouldn’t work,” Metatron spat.  “And now the rules have been broken for nothing, and it cannot be undone.  That is probably what pushed Raphael over the edge into obstinacy.” Metatron ground their teeth.  “Even when she was in Heaven, she was too clever for her own good. She’ll be the death of us, if not Raphael.”

“Leave him to me,” said Gabriel.  “I’ve got a watch on the snake’s lair so we can grab him as soon as he resurfaces. We’ll see what _he_ has to say about this whole matter.”

“That’s not good enough. You grasp the severity of the situation? We need to resolve this situation with Raphael _and_ find some way to get Maltha to engage.  We need the war.  At any cost.”

Gabriel stopped and looked Metatron directly in the eye.  “At _any_ cost?  You mean that?”

“Yes.”

Gabriel nodded solemnly. “All right.  I’ll take care of it.”

Gabriel broke off, making a beeline for the exit of the courtyard.  Metatron watched him go, then shouted after him, “And find that snake! Surely it can’t be that hard to find _one demon,_ wherever he is!”

* * *

Aziraphale awoke to find that he had been ensnared by a mighty serpent.

The angel blearily jerked up, but upon realizing who it was he relaxed again, his head puffing back into the pillow.

Crowley’s head rested on the angel’s chest with one beady, lidless eye turned towards him. Aziraphale only knew that he was asleep by his rate of breathing.  Great red and black coils looped from the head around Aziraphale’s chest and down one leg.

Aziraphale cupped his partner’s head.  “Crowley.”

The serpent let out one deep, irritated breath and flicked his tongue in and out.  The muscular body surrounding Aziraphale constricted slightly, squeezing him.

“Crowley.”

The wedge-shaped head inched forwards until the forked tongue tickled Aziraphale’s nose.  “Yes, angel?” said Crowley’s voice, soft and very sleepy.

“It’s time to wake up.”

The coils gave him another squeeze.  “It’s not time to wake up until I say it is.”

“Is it time, then?”

The tongue flicked out onto his cheek.  “No.”

Aziraphale lay on the bed, stroking Crowley’s smooth head.  The clock ticked in the cozy, quiet room.

“It’s been fourteen hours. Surely that’s enough sleep?”

Crowley’s head poked into Aziraphale’s nightshirt, just enough to cover his eyes and block the light from the window.  “But we’re on vacation.  That’s only seven hours in normal sleep time.”

Aziraphale patted the fat, scaly girth around his stomach.  “That’s not a real concept.”

“Well, I _say_ it is.”

“So you’re in charge, then, huh?”

“It appears that way.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, you forgot one thing, you old snake!” said Aziraphale.  And he held Crowley to his body and rolled to the edge of the bed, sliding over and standing up, hauling the snake with him.  Crowley tightened his grip so as not to fall, bunching around his shoulders and hips.

“That isn’t fair,” whined Crowley as Aziraphale put his slippers on.

“Amazing,” said Aziraphale. “He doesn’t have to move at all, and he still finds something to complain about.”

Aziraphale padded out of the bedroom with the snake in tow.  Their vacation house was very small, so he only had to walk a few paces to get into the kitchen.

“I don’t suppose you’ll be any help cooking breakfast, with no thumbs and all?”

Crowley merely flicked his tongue into Aziraphale’s ear in response.

Still wrapped up extensively, Aziraphale trundled to the refrigerator and removed the ingredients for omelets.

As the pan sizzled with oil, Crowley’s head ventured out and sniffed at the carton of eggs. “Charming, dear,” said Aziraphale as the demon’s serpentine jaws unhinged and he began to swallow an egg whole.

Once the omelets were done, Aziraphale activated the toaster.  “Angel, feed me some of that bacon,” said Crowley as Aziraphale slapped strips of meat into the pan.

“I don’t think snakes really eat bacon.”

“They do.”

“They don’t.”

“Well, this one does.”

Aziraphale sighed and rolled up a piece of raw bacon, which Crowley snatched when it was proffered.

He managed to keep his appetite in check until Aziraphale had breakfast on the table.  The angel took his seat, careful not to sit on any part of the demon.

“I’m starting to eat now,” he said tauntingly, waving his fork.  “It’d be a lot easier for both of us if _someone_ had the decency to give himself hands right about now.”

Crowley sulked but admitted it would be difficult to consume the toast and orange juice.  He plopped to the floor and re-emerged as a man-shaped being.

“Have fun?” Aziraphale asked.

Crowley looked at him from over a sip of orange juice.  “Making you cook for me?  Yes.”

“You lazy serpent.”

“I’m on vacation.”  Crowley gave him a cheesy grin in between mouthfuls of cheesy eggs.  “Isn’t this great?  We should have done this years ago.  Run off for a secret getaway.  No distractions, no phones, no interruptions…completely isolated… Adramelech isn’t constantly blowing up my inbox begging me to look at his new Instagram post…”

“Yes, I wonder how that poor boy is getting along,” said Aziraphale wryly, “without us constantly reaffirming him every ten minutes.”

“He survived before us, and he can survive for a few more months while we finish our nice, long, well-earned vacation.  I’m having a grand time.  I’d almost forgotten what it was like before mobiles existed.  It’s nice to be unbothered.”  Crowley ripped the crust off his toast.  “I could almost forget Heaven and Hell exist all the way out here.  I think this is the first time ever I haven’t gotten any annoying mail from them.  Should have guessed the only way to get them to leave me alone was to go off without telling them where we went.”

“Agreed,” said Aziraphale.  “What would you like to do today?”

Crowley tapped his fork on his plate.  “I thought it might be nice to go flying.  It’s supposed to be nice weather today, and it’s been simply ages.”

“All right,” said Aziraphale. “That sounds lovely.”

They put their dishes in the sink without washing them, thinking that they might miraculously be clean when they came back.  Aziraphale insisted on putting on a pair of track shorts and running shoes.

“You’re not actually going to be running, angel.”

“The concept is the same.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“Yes, it is.”

Crowley rolled his eyes and put on a t-shirt.

Aziraphale flung open the doors to the balcony and strolled out.  “Okay, Crowley!  On three. Ready?  One…”

He threw himself to get out of the way as Crowley ran out past him, put one foot on the railing, and flung himself out.  His wings snapped open and he arced upwards, soaring away.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale yelled, hauling himself over the railing much less gracefully to try and catch up.  “Come back here!”

Aziraphale flapped his wings mightily to lift himself higher.  Crowley was already impossibly far ahead. Aziraphale cheated a little and bent the laws of aerodynamics to let himself go faster.

The ground beneath them shrunk from a grid of civilization to a monolith of green and blue splotches.  Moisture soaked Aziraphale’s hair as he broke through a cloud.  Crowley was still ahead of him, a black smudge against the soaring white puffs surrounding them.

Aziraphale pulled up level with him and rocketed straight towards him. “Gotcha!” he said, his arms closing around the demon’s waist.  They collided with such force that they went tumbling head over heels.

“Angel!” said Crowley, but his next sentence was lost in peals of laughter.

Aziraphale beat his wings to steady them, their limbs tangled up together. The angel’s broad wings held them aloft, Crowley hanging underneath of him.  The demon let his wings go limp.

Aziraphale put his head in Crowley’s hair.  The only sound was his thumping wingbeats.

“I love you,” said Crowley.  “I want to stay with you here forever.”

“That can be arranged.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Crowley held him tightly and began to kiss him.

They were suddenly buffeted to the side by the wind from a plane that appeared from behind a cloud.  They both cartwheeled again, but managed to hold on.

“Hah!  If anyone on that plane happened to be holding a camera, we’ll make the cover of _Weekly World News_ ,” said Crowley.

“Again,” said Aziraphale, giggling.

“Again.  I can see the headline now.”  He held both his arms out, as though to frame it.  “‘Angels caught snogging in cloud.’”

“Angel _s_?”

“Oh, you know that they can’t tell the difference.  Besides!”  He wrapped his wings around Aziraphale, his primaries brushing against his ankles and the exposed socks there.  “That won’t be the important part of the story!  It’ll be that angel’s terrible fashion sense!”

“Very funny.”

He put his hands to his mouth in mock horror.  “Do humans even _make_ tartan gym socks, or is that yet another piece in this occult mystery?”

Aziraphale dropped him.  He laughed a bit too hard at his own joke, winching his wings open and jetting away. The angel dived to follow.

Crowley pulled up suddenly.

“Gotcha again!” said Aziraphale, grabbing him, but Crowley pushed at him.

“Angel, did you see that?”

“See what?” said Aziraphale, alarmed.

“I saw somebody.”

“Somebody?  Angel or demon?”

“I…I don’t know.  They went by so fast.”

Aziraphale strained his senses, but he could find no other presences in the sky with them.  “I don’t see anyone.”

“I’m telling you, I saw someone.  They had gold wings.”

Gold was a common wing colouration among angels, but it wasn’t unheard of for demons.  “All right, Crowley, don’t panic.  If they were moving fast they might have just gone past us without even noticing us.”

Crowley’s eyes darted around the sky, his wings beating frantically fast, as though ready to streak away at the first sign of danger.

This was something that happened occasionally.  Crowley would become convinced he saw something or heard something or smelled something and start panicking.  And no matter how hard they would look, they could never find anything, and Aziraphale would have nothing with which to comfort him.  And Crowley would go back to whatever they were doing, but it would always be obvious that he was still anxious because they had been unable to resolve it.

_I thought I saw something, angel…. I thought I heard a noise…I thought I smelled smoke…Did you feel that?_

“Hey,” said Aziraphale, taking Crowley’s hand.  “Crowley.  We’re _safe._ ”

“Safe.”

“Our _friend_ is sitting on Hell’s throne. And you have a commendation that says Heaven can’t touch you.  We’re three months into a vacation and nobody knows where we are.  We’ve never been safer.”

Crowley drew his arms around himself.  “You’re right.  You’re right, I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.  Why don’t we see if we can try and find whoever that was?  Would that put your mind at ease?”

“Yeah.  Okay.”

“Okay.”

A few minutes later and there was still no sign of anyone.  Aziraphale looked doubtfully at Crowley, a speck drifting against the clouds in the distance.  He motioned him to come back over.  They met halfway.

“I don’t see anything.”

“Me either.”

“Would you like to go home?  We can lock the door and watch a film.”

Crowley looked down at the ground below them.  His gaze snapped back up to Aziraphale, a mischievous grin on his face. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

And the demon propelled himself down, tackling Aziraphale, zooming towards the ground.

The speed with which they plummeted was a bit alarming, but Aziraphale could hear laughter from where Crowley’s head was buried in his midsection. The clouds raced away from him, Crowley’s wings filling his vision.

They hit water.  Hard.

It stung.  Aziraphale suspected Crowley had broken some laws of physics to keep their bodies in one piece upon the impact; surely they would have died had they been mortal.

Crowley’s arms released him as bubbles obscured his vision.  Even though they had been slowed supernaturally, Aziraphale’s back thumped against the bottom of the lake or river or whatever they had landed in.  Dizzy, Aziraphale tried to regain his senses as he finally slowed, drifting upwards with his natural buoyancy.

It took a full minute to reach the surface.  He gulped in great breaths of air as he breached, his wings slapping wetly on the interface.  Still panting, he smoothed his sopping hair back out of his face.  

“Crowley?”  He looked around as he treaded water.

When the demon did not materialize on the surface, he instantly started to panic.  “Crowley!” He took one deep breath and dove under, using his wings to pump himself down.  He opened his eyes.

Crowley was a dozen meters off, his sinuous body bending like a snake to get him to the surface.  His sleek red wings trailed behind him in the water, shedding feathers that could not hold on against the drag of the water, looking like two streams of blood sprouting from his back.  His shirt had somehow disappeared, and his trousers had transformed into swim trunks.

Aziraphale bobbed up to the surface again.  Crowley’s head finally broke the water, his dark hair plastered down to his chin.  He leaned back, spreading out and floating spread-eagle on the surface, stretching his wings out to their full length.  A gaggle of ducks quacked as they paddled by, seemingly intrigued by the extra feathers. “Lovely day for a swim, don’t you think?” he said, drifting lazily.

Aziraphale dog-paddled over to him, slapping his bare stomach.  “You nearly gave me a heart attack.”

“The water just looked so enticing.”

“From a zillion kilometers up?”

“Yes.”

Aziraphale recognized what had happened, of course.  Crowley had been too nervous to stay in the air, but instead of admitting defeat, he had turned it into a joke and plunged them both into the water.

He let him.  If that’s what he felt he had to do to feel safe, Aziraphale would tolerate anything. He would stay in the lake until Crowley felt confident enough to go back into the air.  He brushed hair out of Crowley’s face.  “Mmm-hmm, I’m sure.”

Crowley splashed him.  The ducks quacked in a startled way and paddled off.

They spent a while swimming and generally mucking about in the water.  They preened each other’s wet wings.  They materialized some bread and threw it to the ducks.  They dove to the bottom and turned over rocks to find fish that had been hiding from them. They saw who could hold their breath longest, but they both cheated, so that lasted half an hour.  Crowley submerged himself and re-emerged as a long serpent, claiming to be the Loch Ness monster.  Aziraphale rolled his eyes.  

Finally, Crowley trudged up onto the shore, shaking his wings and squeezing the water out of his hair.  Aziraphale followed suit, trying to get the water out of his wings, which were soaked to the down.

Crowley lay himself out facedown, because the sun had just emerged from behind a cloud.  He spread his wings in the sunlight to soak up the warmth.  Aziraphale fanned his wings out too, and he combed his fingers through the demon’s extended feathers.

“Mmm, that feels good.”

Crowley fell asleep on the shore eventually.  As he snoozed, Aziraphale stretched out and watched the lake, observing the ducks and following the waves lapping at the shore.  It was very peaceful.

Crowley started awake a few minutes later and tried to pretend he hadn’t nodded off.  He picked a twig out of his hair as he stood and said, “Ready to go?”

“Ready when you are.”

Aziraphale let Crowley take the lead as they got back into the air.  It was starting to get late, so Aziraphale expected him to start heading back home.  But he soared in the opposite direction.

After they had flown for a while, it became obvious where he was going. “Crowley, you know where we are, don’t you?” he said, pulling up level with him.  “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather stay away?”

“It’s fine, angel.”

A city gradually appeared beneath them, limestone-coloured buildings with flat roofs circling a courtyard with a yellow dome.  Crowley drifted down onto one of the taller buildings, perching on the edge, taking in the whole scene.

“Jerusalem,” said Aziraphale, landing next to him.  “Mount Zion.  I would have thought you would want to keep as far away as possible.”

Crowley was still only in his swim trunks.  His bare feet patted against the stone as he swung his legs. “What must He think of us?  Don’t you ever wonder?”

“He?”

“God.”

Aziraphale sat next to him and draped one wing over the two of them. “Crowley, the Temple Mount is one of the most powerful spiritual sites in existence.  Thousands of worshippers from different religions all come here to use it.  God’s presence is more potent here than anywhere else on Earth.  You shouldn’t be this close to it.”

Crowley’s eyes rested on the temple dome.  “He can see us all the time, though, can’t He?  So why would it matter how close we were?  Sometimes I imagine Him going, ‘I wonder what the serpent who corrupted my creation is up to.  Let’s see.  Oh, he’s having a wash at the moment.  Oh, he’s snogging that angel who lost his sword.  Oh, he’s—‘”  He looked down.  “With how He used to go about doling out smitings, I would have thought we would both be dead by now.  He _must_ know what’s going on between us.  Isn’t He sort of…giving us taciturn approval by not doing anything about it?”

Aziraphale put his hand on Crowley’s knee.  “How long has this been bothering you?”

“You haven’t worried about this?”

“I…”  Aziraphale hesitated.  “Crowley, God is kind and just.”

“Well you wouldn’t know it unless He kept telling us,” scoffed Crowley.

Aziraphale rubbed his arm.  “Ineffability.”

“Ineffability.”

“If He hasn’t intervened by now, then I don’t think we should trouble ourselves worrying about it.”

Crowley leaned his head into Aziraphale’s shoulder.  “Maybe you’re right.  Not much point trying to second-guess, I suppose….”

They sat in silence for a while, watching the beautiful cotton candy clouds in the sunset.

“When was the last time you talked to Him?” said Crowley.

“Hm?”

“Him.  God. When was the last time you talked to Him face-to-face?”

Aziraphale did not respond.  He still had not told Crowley about what God had answered him last time he prayed, and he didn’t want to now.

The thought had been eating at him.  Because if God was really that displeased with him, why was Aziraphale still walking around freely? Where was His divine retribution?  

Instead of sharing these thoughts, Aziraphale just answered, “He’s very busy. That’s why He has Metatron and the other archangels.  Why? Are you worried?”

“I…Well, I mean…Where _is_ He?”

“He usually sits on the throne.”

“I know, I mean… What’s He _doing_? He used to make such a big fuss about everything.  Burn down cities that displease Him and suchlike.  But now He’s just…quiet.”

“It’s ineffable.”

“I’m just saying this world run by God sometimes looks suspiciously like a world run by nobody at all.”

Aziraphale hugged Crowley closer to him.  “I know you don’t have the best relationship with Him—”

“No relationship.”

“Hm?”

“It’s kind of hard to have a relationship with someone in whose presence you’d burn up.”

Aziraphale squeezed his hand.  “What I want to say is that He’s _there_ , Crowley.  You don’t need to doubt that.  He’s all powerful.  We can count on that.”

Crowley did not seem mollified and stared out at the sunset pensively. “Ineffable, huh…”  

The sun sank slowly towards the horizon, bathing the holy city in dying pink light, the light of the sunset reflecting off the roof of the temple.

The ground rumbled.  Fire started to spring from somewhere.  There was an enormous booming.  And with one shudder, before their eyes, the holiest shrine in the world collapsed to a chorus of human screams, smoke bellowing out, sirens beginning to wail into the night.


	2. The Hazard...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On tumblr at http://not-a-space-alien.tumblr.com/post/162107307635/falling-hazard-part-2-the-hazard

 

 

* * *

The radio was barely audible over the Bentley’s engine as it roared at ninety mph down the road.  BBC was talking about the attack on the Temple.  It was obviously a terrorist group, they said, but which one?  There was speculation, but no one had come forward to claim responsibility for the attack.

Aziraphale and Crowley knew that none of them would.  Because the attack on the Temple had been no human terrorist. They had felt the shift in spiritual energy in the place.  There were supernatural forces at work.

You didn’t destroy shrines, and you didn’t kill humans.  Nobody on any side did either, no matter how unruly.  It simply wasn’t done.  The rules against direct interference with human affairs, rather than inspiration and temptation and messing about, were ingrained that deeply in all of them.

And at a site as important as Temple Mount.  It was unthinkable.  Something big was happening.  Which is why they had booked it back home from their vacation spot as soon as they as could.

Crowley kept one hand on the steering wheel and extended the other. “Aziraphale, hand me my phone.  I’m going to try one more time.”

As soon as it was in his hand he navigated through his contacts to _Maltha_.

“Come on, come on,” he muttered, and then, “Dammit!” when he got the message she couldn’t be reached.

“Try Beth’s number,” said Aziraphale.

“Come _on_ ,” said Crowley, scrolling up to _Beth._  “ _Please_ , somebody pick up.”

Beth was also unavailable.  When Crowley hung up, his phone vibrated in his hand with a text from Adam:   _Please tell me that was a human terrorist at the temple?????_  And then a few seconds later another: _Crowley?????????_

“Please text Adam and tell him what’s going on,” said Crowley, tossing his phone into the center console.  Aziraphale grabbed the door handle as Crowley executed a sharp turn.  The angel flipped his phone open and began to type on it.

There was a car in the parking spot in front of Aziraphale’s bookshop, but it mysteriously and hastily jerked forwards into a tow-away zone to make room for the Bentley.  The tires screeched.  The parking brake cranked.  The engine died.

“Done,” said Aziraphale, pressing _Send_.

“Okay.  Great.”

They both sat in silence.  Crowley took a deep breath and leaned back.  “Okay.  We’re here now.  What do we do?”

“I…”  Aziraphale grimaced.  “I don’t know.”

“Okay,” said Crowley, running his hands on the steering wheel.  “We have no reason to believe the attack had anything to do with us.  We just happened to be nearby.”

“Right,” said Aziraphale.  “Nothing to do with us.”

“No reason to believe anyone would be showing up for us.  This is completely unrelated to anything that we’ve ever gotten ourselves involved with.”

“Absolutely.”

“No one could find any way to blame this on us no matter how many mental pretzels they bend themselves into.”

“I believe so.”

“No danger to us personally at all.”

“It would appear that way.”

“Right.”

“Right.”

They both tapped their fingers on various places in the car.

“You get out the spray paint and start putting up protective sigils on the shop,” said Crowley, throwing his door open.  “I’m going to try and get ahold of Maltha.”

Crowley got some paper and a pen. He wrote in very large letters,   _Maltha what is going on._  And then, after a bit of thought, added _Maltha I swear t ~~o~~ ~~God~~ ~~Satan~~ ~~Adam~~ if you’re responsible for this_

He stopped, because he didn’t have any way to end that threat.  The only power he held over Maltha would be to sever their friendship, and he didn’t think that would end very well for him or Aziraphale.

_Then I’ll be extremely upset_ he finally finished, lamely.   _Please call me as soon as you get this._

He addressed the letter and went up to the study, where Aziraphale sent and received his mail.  When he grabbed the handle, a weight on the other side of the door resisted its opening. He pushed, and fell when it yielded.

His fall was broken by a pile of something and the sound of sifting paper. He pushed himself up to find himself sitting on top of a huge mound of letters.

“Holy shit,” said Crowley.  “Wh…What are all these?”

The fact that he not been burned by the letters told him the sender had used parchment safe for him to touch, so he picked one up.  It was addressed to Aziraphale, but he opened it anyway.

_Aziraphale,_

_Where is Crowley?  You will be disciplined for not responding._

_-Gabriel._

That wasn’t good.  He set it aside and picked up another one.

_Aziraphale and Crowley,_

_You are hereby commanded to report to Heaven’s gates for a debriefing._

_-Gabriel._

He grimaced, set it aside, and picked up a third one.

_AZIRAPHALE WHERE IN THE FUCKING FUCK ARE YOU AND THAT SNAKE?  DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA WHAT’S GOING ON?  RESPOND!!!_

_-Gabriel_

“Shit,” said Crowley.  “Shit, shit, shit.”

He sifted through the letters to confirm that they were all from Gabriel and the messages were more or less the same.  They were, overwhelmingly, from Gabriel, although he did find one from Metatron with more or less the same content, which was worded slightly more politely, and one from Uriel, which was not so polite and chastised Aziraphale for abandoning his post.

He dropped the letters from Heaven and picked up his own to Maltha, then waded through the mail to get to the outgoing post.  He threw down his letter, which disappeared with a lick of flame. Then, he materialized another piece of parchment and wrote, _BETH, TELL YOUR GIRLFRIEND TO CALL ME,_ and chucked it down after the first letter. Then, he wrote a less harsh letter to Noah, which chased the first two down.

Crowley could feel the barriers around the shop coming up after that.  It was the same one they had used in an earlier time of crisis:  Bars the entry of all demons except those who love the Earth.  He wondered who, if anyone, would be showing up.

Aziraphale appeared in the doorway, clothes speckled with white paint. He furrowed his brow at the pile of mail starting on his desk and cascading onto the floor.  “What are all these?”

“Gabriel was looking for us.”

“Shit,” said Aziraphale, picking one up.

“What should we respond?”

Aziraphale sifted through the letters, performing the same investigation that Crowley had.

“What do you think he could want?”

Aziraphale stared at the letters he had in his hand.

“Angel?”

“I don’t like the sound of this,” said Aziraphale.  “And I would rather not talk to him at all.  Let’s wait to respond to him until after we’ve heard back from Maltha.  I would much prefer to talk to her first.”

Crowley tactfully avoided pointing out that Aziraphale was more comfortable around the Queen of Hell than one of his own commanders.  “Okay.”

“Surely we can avoid Gabriel a bit longer.”

Crowley somewhat had his doubts about how long Gabriel would fail to notice they were back, but he was fine with anything that kept distance between him and any of the archangels, especially one that seemed angry at them. “Okay.”

Aziraphale wrung his hands.  “That means I can’t contact anyone in Heaven without drawing his attention.  But it’s not like anyone in Heaven would know what happened at the Temple, anyway, right?  The culprit must be infernal in origin.”

“Of _course_ they’re infernal. Who in _Heaven_ would destroy the Temple Mount?  This is a blow to Heaven like they’ve never suffered before.”  He trailed off.  “Angel, what if…what if this is a pre-emptive strike against Heaven before the war the same way Heaven struck at Hell by killing Ba’al Berith the last time they tried?”

Aziraphale grabbed his arm.  “We don’t know that.  Maltha’s in charge, and she wouldn’t do that.  She’s risked everything and committed herself to Earth’s survival just like we have.  She’s in love with a _human_ for somebody’s sake.”

Aziraphale had a series of very dark thoughts about Maltha.  Because she had only shown up once the throne was empty, and had only been on the throne for a few months before a suspicious _someone_ destroyed one of the most symbolically important places to Heaven on Earth against all rules.  And Maltha had never been one to respect rules or symbolism.

Was it a bold move?  Very.  Would Maltha have the audacity to do it?  Yes.  Her, and not many other beings in the universe.  

Had her redemption been just a ploy to get at the throne?

Had all that about her being Aziraphale and Crowley’s friend been just for show?

Had Beth been just a prop?

The destruction of the Temple would spark something massive between Heaven and Hell, and Earth was their only sanctioned battleground.  Did she actually care about the Earth at all?  Had that just been part of the act?  Would she be willing to sacrifice Earth to further her grudge against Heaven?

It was scary to him that he could even think this about someone who had offered to die defending him.  But the state of things had changed, and all options were on the table.

And the scariest thing of all was that if it were true, he had been played, they all had, and events were already in motion, and there was nothing at all he could do about it.

“Who else could it be?” said Crowley, interrupting his train of thoughts. “Renegades in Hell?”

Renegades.  Demons who did it without Maltha’s permission.  The possibility sent a wave of relief washing over Aziraphale, as well as one of guilt that he had not thought of it.

“Maybe,” said Aziraphale.  “That would make more sense.”

“That group didn’t look very happy when Noah ordered them down to Hell,” said Crowley.  “It wouldn’t surprise me if maybe they didn’t have everything under control down there.”

“Of course,” said Aziraphale with a breath.  “Of course.  That makes much more sense.  You’re right.”

“I suppose all we can do is wait to see what Maltha says,” said Crowley grimly. “If it was renegades she’d probably know about it, and she wouldn’t hesitate to tell us.”

“You’re right.  Let’s just sit tight.  Now that our home is fortified, we can wait here and see what happens.”

“Right,” said Crowley.

“I hope Gabriel has forgotten about us by now,” fretted Aziraphale.  “I would much rather hear about what’s going on from Maltha.  Surely she’ll respond soon.”

They curled up together on the couch.  The telly was playing the news, but neither of them was even pretending to watch it.  They texted Adam back and forth with decreasing urgency, mostly different iterations of _No idea_ and _Keep me updated._  Eventually Adam sent them a picture of Dog looking morose in a medical cone with a cast, captioned _Got a bit too enthusiastic chasing cars._

Adramelech sent them a message via Snapchat an hour later, but it was about how worried he was about them rather than any useful information. Crowley checked his Instagram account to find that Adramelech was still posting about the makeup he had bought over the weekend.  Oryss frequented Facebook, so Aziraphale checked her account, but she had only posted a link to a news article about the attack and put a frame showing her support of the victims around her profile picture.  Crowley knew what Botis’s Reddit username was and checked his activity, but it was just a wall of reply posts he had made arguing with someone on r/swords about the merit of shortswords versus two-handed weapons.  Abraxas was on tumblr sometimes, so Crowley pulled her account up to find that she had paused the onslaught of pictures of her cats to reblog a thinkpiece about Europeans using the attack to justify Islamaphobia, but not much else.  Beth was also on tumblr occasionally, but it turned out that she hadn’t updated since that time a month ago when she told a radical feminist to get off her blog.  

No one seemed to have any useful information, or at least none of them were posting about it on social media where they could see it.  Aziraphale figured that if anyone wanted to contact him about something, officially, they would send a letter.  That was the proper way to do it.

But their inbox remained worryingly empty as time went on. There weren’t even any new letters from Gabriel demanding to know where they were.

They flipped the telly over to a sitcom.  They waited.  The situation began to seem less dire.  No one was coming for them.  Maybe, finally, they were off the hook, and events would unfold far away from them, under someone else’s responsibility.

Not that that was much of a comfort, considering the Earth’s continued existence might be at stake.

They turned the telly off.  The clock ticking was the only sound in the room.  

“Hey, angel,” said Crowley from the crook of Aziraphale’s elbow.

“Yes?”

“Well, earlier you said…”

“What is it?”

“You said…  ‘our home.’   You called it ‘our home.’”

“Yes…?  What do you, er…”

“Well, I just mean…”  He buried his face in Aziraphale’s chest.  “It’s _your_ home, technically.”

“Well, I suppose so.  But I think it’s safe to say you live here now.”

“But I never moved in.”

“Dear…What exactly is it you’re worried about?”

“Oh, I’m not worried.”  He idly twisted his finger in Aziraphale’s hair.  “I was just thinking that, you know, moving in together is a big step up in a relationship.  We never really did it.  Officially.”

“I had assumed we were already on that level…considering all we’ve been through together.”

“I just…”

“Do you not feel like you live here?”

“It’s just not _official_ , you know?  I never _moved_.”

“You barely ever go to your flat anymore!”

“Well, I have all my bills set up on autopay, and my plants….My plants! Angel, that’s it!  I left my plants in my flat.  If I moved them over here, then we would be really living together, you know?”

“Your plants?”

“Aziraphale, would you like to move in together?”

“Of-of course, my dear.”

Crowley planted a kiss on his cheek.  “Then it’s official!  I’ll bring my plants over here at the first opportunity.”

“Al right!” said Aziraphale, touched by how excited it made the demon.

Crowley settled back into Aziraphale’s arm.  The vibrating excitement around him did not go away.

“Would you like to go get them right now?” said Aziraphale.

“Right now?” said Crowley.

“Sure, there’s nothing going on yet.  How long could it take?  And maybe we should see if you have any mail at your place, anyway.”

“All right,” said Crowley.  “Does…Does Gabriel know where I live?”

“Hm?  I don’t know,” said Aziraphale.  “I don’t think so.  It’s not like you give your address out to anyone.  I don’t think my demons even know where you live.”

“Okay then,” said Crowley.  “I’ll just pop over there and get them, and we can set them up.  My spider plant would go great by the bedroom window.”

“All right, I’ll stay here in case we get word from anyone,” said Aziraphale, like an idiot.  He didn’t consider that maybe they should go together until Crowley was climbing into the Bentley.

* * *

Crowley didn’t feel the presence inside his flat until he was right outside the door.  He froze.

“I know you’re out there,” said a voice, muffled through the door.  “Don’t bother running.  I just want to have a chat with you.  Come in.”

“Just a chat,” said Crowley.  “You expect me to believe that?”

“You’re a celestial agent,” said the voice from inside, “and you’ll obey the commands of an archangel like one.”

* * *

They had been living peacefully, unbothered, since Maltha had taken the throne, and their lives had started to return to the normalcy they had been used to before all this apocalypse nonsense had broken out.  Aziraphale’s wartime caution had started to fade.  He was feeling slightly unsettled—anyone would, given the circumstances—but he thought the possibility of danger to them personally was relatively low as things stood.  Until his phone dinged with a text from Crowley which said simply, in all caps:

_HELP_

Aziraphale cursed mightily, instantly ratcheting up into full combat mode, tearing up the stairs and throwing himself out the bedroom window. His wings snapped open and he zoomed into the sky.

He closed the distance between his shop and Crowley’s flat in forty five seconds.  He aimed for the dining room window, which he slammed open with a miracle.  He dove through it, rolling, and came up with his sword poised.

Crowley was sitting at the table, a teacup in one shaking hand.  And in the other seat was the archangel Gabriel.

“G-Gabriel, sir!” said Aziraphale, snapping to attention and saluting.

“I told you I wanted to talk to you _alone_ ,” said Gabriel, setting his cup on his saucer with a pointed look at Crowley.  It was then that Aziraphale noticed Crowley’s phone was in the middle of the table, bent and cracked, as though Gabriel had smashed it the second Crowley had gotten his text off.

“Not my fault if he wants to show up of his own accord, sir,” said Crowley, sweating.

“Stay here,” said Gabriel, standing and pulling Aziraphale aside into the kitchen.

“Sir, what’s going on?” said Aziraphale.

“I want to talk to him alone,” said Gabriel.  “There are certain things he would hesitate to say in front of you.”

Aziraphale’s anger flared up.  “He can say _anything_ in front of me. Sir, I must protest!  We’ve always worked together!”

“You are naïve, Aziraphale.  This does not involve you.  Leave.”

And here Aziraphale was faced with a direct order from an archangel, but he did not think twice before ignoring it and saying:

“You waited until we were separated to pounce on him while he was alone!”

“We were watching his flat, Aziraphale.  I needed to talk to him as soon as possible.”

Aziraphale took his New Year’s resolution to be polite to Gabriel and chucked it directly into his mental rubbish bin.  “Don’t go near him when I’m not around!  I’m tired of you archangels bullying him just for some power trip!”

Gabriel’s eyes seemed to catch fire.  “ _What_ did you just say to me?”

Aziraphale, suddenly becoming self-aware, sheepishly added, “…sir.”

Gabriel looked like he wanted to snap Aziraphale in half.  “You forget yourself, principality.  He has been a bad influence on you.  Leave now.  He will come back to you unharmed.”

Aziraphale, his face growing red, marched back into the dining room, pulled a chair up to the table, and began pouring himself a cup of tea.

Gabriel looked incredulous.  Aziraphale made eye contact with him from across the room, over his teacup.  “Care to join us, sir?”

Gabriel’s face contorted into rage, but he crossed the room and took his seat without comment.

“Aziraphale, I have no idea what’s going on,” said Crowley.  “I _swear_.”

“Mind filling me in on what you were… _discussing_?” said Aziraphale, with a pointed look at Crowley’s destroyed phone.

Gabriel took his teacup in a death grip.  “We were just discussing the fact that Raphael is aggressively pursuing a case that Michael should be cast out of Heaven at Crowley’s request.”

Aziraphale sloshed tea out of his cup.  “ _What?_

“As I _said_ ,” said Gabriel, “there are certain things he will not have told you.  Have you already forgotten that demons are liars?  Especially _this_ one?”  

“I never _asked_ him to do that,” said Crowley.  “I haven’t spoken with Raphael since that time he healed me after Kabata attacked me.”

“He would never admit to doing something like this in front of you, Aziraphale, and he would never admit to keeping it from you for fear of losing your….relationship.”  He said this last word with a certain amount of disgust.

“On what grounds is it argued that Michael should fall?” Aziraphale said hotly.

“Crowley claims Michael should fall because of his intentional murder of a celestial agent—himself.”

Aziraphale realized he meant Michael had killed Crowley in the chaos leading up to the last Notpocalypse, who had only been brought back through the intervention of Noah.  “But Crowley is _alive!_ ” said Aziraphale, gesticulating wildly.  “Noah fixed all that!  There’s no need for any punishment!”

Gabriel slammed his teacup down.  “Yes, that is _precisely_ my point.  I am here to convince Crowley to ask Raphael to drop the case.”

“I never asked him to bring it up!” said Crowley.  “Why would I?”

Gabriel sneered at him.  “Why would a demon have motivation to want to see Michael fall?  Take your pick.  You’d obviously still be upset about what he did, so you’d harbor some resentment about that.  Maybe you’re just using that as an excuse because you want to see the Sword of Heaven be cast out just like yourself.  Maybe you want him for Hell’s legions.  Maybe you’re just bitter.  In any case, he wouldn’t tell you, Aziraphale, because it’s obvious it would upset you.”

“I _didn’t_ ,” said Crowley.  “I swear.  I’m not lying.”

“The demon who made his name corrupting the creation by telling a lie,” said Gabriel, “expects me to believe that he is truthful.  Charming.”

“Gabriel,” said Aziraphale.  “He wouldn’t. I know him.  Even if he was bitter about Michael almost killing him—”

“Succeeding in killing him,” interrupted Gabriel.

“Whatever.  Even _if_ , he would rather stay out of trouble than see Michael punished.  He’s _always_ complaining about wanting to be left alone.”

“Maybe that is just because he needs more space than you are giving him. You _are_ rather overbearing, Aziraphale,” said Gabriel.

Aziraphale clenched his fist and accidentally snapped the handle off his teacup.

Crowley began, “Gabriel, can we maybe talk about this more later, after I’ve—”

“No,” snapped Gabriel.  “I’m not letting you out of my sight until this is resolved.  You leave to use the toilet and suddenly you’ll be mysteriously unavailable for three months.  I know how you operate, you slippery serpent.”

Crowley, his face red, sunk lower in his seat.

“This must be a misunderstanding,” said Aziraphale.  “Crowley would have told me if he were going to do anything like this.”

“You have incredible trust, Aziraphale.  It is misplaced.”

“It’s _not._ ”

“You expect me to believe him over my own brother!” Gabriel said. “Raphael would not lie!  Raphael loves Michael more than any of us!  He would not try to hurt him like this unless there was a very good reason!  Crowley is manipulating him into this!”

“I’m not!” he shouted.  “I would _love_ to call Raphael off, but I didn’t call him _on!_ ”

“I know Raphael offered you help with whatever you wanted the last time he spoke to you, Crowley.”

“I never took him up on it!” said Crowley.  “I didn’t!”

“Aziraphale,” said Gabriel, “This _must_ be Crowley somehow. We both know Raphael never takes action on his own. He would not swat a fly out of his own face if it were annoying him.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Aziraphale.  “Maybe he’s just finally decided to do something you don’t like after six-thousand years of letting you walk all over him.”

Gabriel’s face twitched with annoyance, and he leaned in towards Aziraphale. Aziraphale leaned back slightly.

“Don’t test me, Aziraphale,” he menaced.  “You will not win.”

Aziraphale couldn’t help but think he _had_ already been testing Gabriel, and was winning.

Gabriel leaned back, closed his eyes, and took a sip of his tea. Terse silence fell at the table.  Crowley’s hand played with his teacup’s handle nervously.

“Hold on,” said Aziraphale, breaking the pause.  “This doesn’t make any sense.  Whatever’s happening with Michael, what does this have to do with the attack on the Temple?”

Gabriel’s eyes swiveled to him like a predatory bird.  “How do you know about the Temple?  Heaven hasn’t sent out any announcements about it.”

“We saw it on the news!” protested Crowley, much more thoughtfully than Aziraphale, who had been about to tell him they had been there. “Everyone knows about it!”

“Do you have any reason to believe it was anyone other than a human actor?” pressed Gabriel, suddenly very interested in going off-topic.

“Well, you’d know more about it than we would,” said Crowley.  “What do you expect from _us_?”

Gabriel drummed his fingers on the table.  Then he stood.  “Come on. We’re going to talk to Raphael. I’m sure he can shed some light on this situation now that you’re back.”  He waved his hand, and a circle laced with sigils appeared on the floor.

“H-hold on,” said Crowley as the archangel began to light the incense.  “We’re going _up there_ to talk to him?”

“Yes.”

“Right now?”

“ _Yes_.”

“Surely Raphael can just come down here?” said Aziraphale.

Gabriel, completing the preparations, turned back towards them. “Raphael has been seized with bouts of paranoia as of late and refuses to leave Heaven to come down to Earth.  I’m lucky if I can get him to come out of the infirmary at all.”

“Wh-what? What the _hell_ is going on?” said Aziraphale.

“That’s what I intend to find out,” growled Gabriel. “Now, let’s go.”

Light began to fill the circle.  “I can’t go into _Heaven_ ,” said Crowley.  “I can’t. I’m a _demon_.  Surely you must—”

“Lying again,” said Gabriel.  “You went into Heaven shortly after your mission to kill Ba’al Berith, and you came into Heaven after Kabata’s attack.  You’re not getting out of this.”

“It injured him both of those times!” Aziraphale protested.

Gabriel grabbed Crowley’s arm.  “If you insist on joining us, Aziraphale, then come on.”

“Get off me,” said Crowley, wrenching his arm out of Gabriel’s grip. “I can walk on my own.  You don’t need to manhandle me.”  Crowley nervously slipped a pair of sunglasses out of his pocket and placed them on his face.

“You don’t have to do this, Crowley,” said Aziraphale.

“I’d say you’re wrong, by the look on _his_ face,” said Crowley.  “I’m sure Raphael will clear this up.  Let’s go.”

Bright, so damn _bright_ , that’s what it always was.  Their feet sent up small white puffs as they landed among the clouds.  The air stung his lungs, but it seemed less intense than the last time.  Maybe that was just his imagination.

The enormous brass gates were off in the distance, the gatekeeper looking at them with interest.  Gabriel prodded them to go towards it.

“He can’t go past the gate,” said Aziraphale.  “It’s dangerous for him to get near it.”

Gabriel pushed them closer to it, but could not get them to go within earshot of the gatekeeper.

“Gabriel, _he can’t go inside,_ ” said Aziraphale, planting himself between them.  “What part of this are you not understanding?”

Gabriel scowled and went over to the gatekeeper, who disappeared after a brief conference.  Gabriel came back over and said, “She is going to bring Raphael out.”  

They waited for a few minutes.  Crowley could feel a blood vessel in his nose about to burst as his headache got worse.

The gatekeeper came back out alone.  Gabriel stomped over to her and spoke to her in a low, tight voice.  She replied indistinctly.

Gabriel came back over.  “Stay _here_ ,” he snarled.  “If either of you leave, I rescind my statement that I just wanted to talk to you, and every angel in Creation will be set on you immediately.” With that threat, he marched into the gates, which clanged shut behind him.

Blood finally started leaking from Crowley’s nose.  Aziraphale wiped it with his handkerchief.

“We could run,” said Aziraphale.

“That’ll just make things worse.”

The gates opened back up.  Raphael came running out, his robes flapping with his speed.

“Cr-Crowley!” said Raphael, grabbing Crowley’s shoulders.  “I thought you were missing?  Hm?  I thought you were gone and nobody could find you?”  His voice held a puzzling desperation, as though Crowley’s presence were an unexpected obstacle.  

“Uh,” said Crowley nervously, overwhelmed.  “I was, but—”

Gabriel appeared behind Raphael, rushing to catch up, and interrupted, “As you can see—”

Raphael cut him off, putting himself between Gabriel and Crowley.  “This is between you and me, Gabriel.  Leave him out of this.  You’ll accomplish nothing by tormenting him like this.”

Gabriel drew forwards until he was toe-to-toe with Raphael.  “Oh, it’s _just between us now_ , is it?  Earlier you were moaning about how we need to treat this demon like a real celestial agent and honour his requests.”

Aziraphale now gleaned that he had walked into the middle of something that had been brewing without him for some time and was finally exploding.

“Raphael,” said Crowley, “I don’t know what’s going on, but I don’t want you to punish Michael on my behalf.”

“Isn’t that interesting?” said Gabriel.  “He doesn’t think Michael should fall.”

Raphael had the look of a sailor taking on water.  “Angels can’t just go around killing people without consequences.  You don’t think Michael deserves to be punished for what he did?  You don’t think he’s too dangerous to have on Heaven’s side?”

“Th-that’s not really for me to decide,” said Crowley.

Raphael put one hand on Crowley’s shoulder.  “But you were so upset when we talked about it earlier.”

It was at this point that Crowley knew he could say nothing useful for the rest of the conversation.  Gabriel would never believe him over Raphael, even if they happened to be fighting at the time.  Nevertheless, he put up the effort:  “We didn’t talk about anything.  That’s not true.”

Gabriel did not even listen to Crowley and glared daggers at Aziraphale. “Well, it appears the _literal lying serpent_ was not truthful with us! This _should_ come as a shock to no one.”

“Be reasonable, Gabriel,” said Raphael, keeping himself between Crowley and the other archangel.  “Of course he’s not going to admit it to you if you barge in and start threatening him. He was probably scared for his life. Most people would lie under those circumstances.”

“Regardless.  Listen to him.  You can drop the case against Michael.  He does not think it is worth pursuing.”

“Well, it doesn’t count if he says it under duress!” said Raphael. “You’re threatening him!”

“I haven’t threatened him in the slightest!”

What _is going on here?_ thought Aziraphale, feeling completely lost.

“Raphael, look—” Crowley began, but Raphael overtook him, hovering over him and clamping his hands on his arms.

“Crowley, I’m _sure_ this has been _quite_ stressful for you, and I don’t think Gabriel should try and coerce any kind of cease-and-desist out of you. You two should go.”

“Don’t go anywhere,” said Gabriel.  

“Go on,” said Raphael.

Crowley looked wildly from Gabriel to Raphael, trying to decide who was more likely to smite him for disobeying.

“You know Raphael,” said Gabriel, taking a step closer, “You seem to be putting the wishes of a _demon_ ahead of your own brother’s wellbeing.  Some might say that makes you a traitor.”

Raphael released Crowley and spun to face Gabriel.  “Interesting that you suddenly care about Michael’s wellbeing.”

Anyone who had stepped between them and taken the full brunt of both of those facial expressions would have surely caught fire.

“I’m just saying,” said Gabriel, “that you should be careful.  Because it could very well be someone _other_ than Michael falling.”

“Is that a threat?” said Raphael with uncharacteristic hardness.

“Just a statement.”

“You can’t.  You need all six of the other archangels to decide unanimously to make the seventh fall, and Michael is in no state to make any decisions.”

“And whose fault is that, hm?” said Gabriel, staring into Raphael challengingly.

“And even then, we still haven’t appointed anyone to replace Camael yet,” said Raphael.  

“Oh, I think I know who would make an excellent fit,” said Gabriel, his eyes sweeping up and down Raphael.  “Victoria? That power that threatened you with physical violence when she found out what you were proposing for Michael? “

“I think we should be going,” sputtered Aziraphale, turning around and pushing Crowley towards the exit to Heaven.

Gabriel made a move towards them, but Raphael blocked him with an outstretched wing.  “I think you’ve gotten everything out of them that you can, Gabriel,” he said.  “Leave them alone.  Don’t go near them.  Do you hear me?  Come to _me._ ”

Aziraphale did not hear Gabriel’s reply, because they had reached the exit and were now hurtling through the clouds with a _whomp._

Crowley was splayed out like a skydiver, his tie flapping over his shoulder, his sunglasses flown off his face.  Aziraphale snapped his wings out and flapped to dissipate his momentum. Crowley put it off a bit longer, doing great loops and cartwheels through the air to reach Aziraphale.

“What the _hell_ was that?” said Aziraphale.

“Your guess is as good as mine.”

The two of them looked at each other from across the sky for a second. Aziraphale began to feel something unpleasant coming up from inside him, and after a moment he realized it was doubt.

Aziraphale closed the distance between them to grab Crowley’s hand, their wingtips brushing against each other with each flap.  “Crowley, _did_ you ask Raphael to open a case for Michael to be cast out of Heaven?”

“What?” said Crowley.  “No! Of course not!”

Aziraphale squeezed his hand.  “Crowley.”

“I didn’t!” he shouted, ripping his hand out of Aziraphale’s.  “You said it yourself!  I would rather stay out of trouble!”

“Crowley, I know you’re scared of Michael—”  Here Crowley coloured furiously and opened his mouth to reply, but Aziraphale rushed ahead, “It’s natural, it totally is.  Especially after what he did, and it makes sense that you’d rather see him as a demon than an angel, so you’d be on the same side.  I don’t know exactly _how_ you could do something like this, but you’re clever enough to figure it out.  I’m just saying it would make sense that you might try to do it quietly, to avoid upsetting me…”

Crowley stared at him, incredulous.  “I don’t believe this,” he hissed.  “I don’t believe thisssss.  You think I’m lying too.”

“Is Maltha making you do this?  If she’s behind the attack on the Temple, this could be part of a plot against Heaven to—”

“I don’t _believe_ you!” he yelled. “After everything we’ve been through together, you still think I’d do something like that?”

“Crowley,” said Aziraphale helplessly.  “Whatever’s going on, I want us to face it together.  I’m just saying you can _tell_ me—”

“You don’t trust us anymore?  You think I would keep this from you?  You think Maltha is suddenly some horrid evil bitch?  You’re really that stubborn about admitting maybe any of the archangels might be in the wrong?”

Shamefaced, Aziraphale fumbled to respond.

“Do you even see us as people the same way you see Gabriel and Raphael?” Crowley accused tearfully.  “This is _really_ all it takes for you to doubt us?  To doubt me?”

“Of course I see you as a person,” Aziraphale tried, trying to take Crowley’s hand again.  “Crowley, I’m so sorry that you would even think that.  Please just—”

“No, you know what, Aziraphale, just shut up.  Just stop right there.  You haven’t changed a single bit since that day in the Garden, you know that?”

“What?”

“You’ve _always_ thought you were better than me, you’ve _always_ thought you _knew_ better than me, you’ve _always_ been…”  He gestured to Aziraphale.  “ _You._ I don’t know why I’m surprised by this.”

Aziraphale’s anger flared up.  “ _What_ are you talking about?”

“How long were you waiting for something like this to happen?  You’ve always been so concerned about my _basic nature_ that the second anyone casts doubt on me you don’t even want to take my side!  Aziraphale, I thought we were past this!”

“Raphael wouldn’t lie about this, Crowley,” he said.

“And why wouldn’t he?  It’s not like the archangels have such a great track record of transparency with me!”

“Raphael is the _only_ archangel in Heaven I would trust right now.  He healed you when you were sick.  He _said_ he would help you.  He’s not doing this just because he wants to!  And he’s always been fond of Michael!  Why _would_ he lie?”

“Yes, Heaven’s upper management is _so_ trustworthy!  God forbid we disagree with our superiors!”

“Well, excuse _me_ for actually being loyal!” said Aziraphale.  “One of us has to!”

They both stared at each other, their wingbeats the only sound. Aziraphale, with growing horror, said, “Crowley, I didn’t mean—”

“I think it’sssss perfectly clear what you meant,” Crowley snapped. “Because demonssss aren’t loyal by nature.”

“Give me some credit, Crowley,” said Aziraphale.  “You know that’s not what I meant.”

“Oh you didn’t mean it like that!  You must have meant it in some _other_ way then?  Like the way I betrayed Hell?  Like the way you think I betrayed Heaven?”

“Crowley, listen, we’re both stressed out by what’s happened.  Why don’t we wait until later—”

“No, there is no _later_ ,” said Crowley.  “You stopped defending me as soon as Raphael started talking.  I think it’s pretty clear where your loyalties are.  You know, _deep down._  Go to Hell, Aziraphale, and have fun sitting in _your home_ with just you and your books.”

The demon spun and dove in the direction of his Mayfair flat, leaving the startled Aziraphale in his wake with a few loose red feathers.


	3. You've Got Mail

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On tumblr at http://not-a-space-alien.tumblr.com/post/162496522645/falling-hazard-part-3-youve-got-mail

 

 

* * *

Aziraphale did not go back to his shop right away.  He spent some time skulking about outside Crowley’s apartment building, hiding in the dark, trying to decide what to do.  He didn’t want to leave things as they were, but he didn’t want to apologise, either.  And he thought Crowley owed him an apology of his own.

A few hours after separating, Aziraphale could feel barriers going up around the flat.  Crowley appeared in the window with a can of red spray paint, swiping it over the window until an anti-demon sigil appeared on it.  He disappeared for a moment and came back with a can of white spray paint and traced a similar symbol, but Aziraphale could tell this one would keep angels out the same way.

Aziraphale crouched on the roof of the building across the street, watching with horror as this was repeated again and again, feeling symbols lacing the walls and doors and windows, every anti-occult and anti-ethereal sigil Aziraphale had ever seen and some he hadn’t, the walls growing thicker and thicker and higher and higher.  When Crowley was finally finished, Aziraphale thought his flat was so fortified not even an archangel would be able to get in, not even Satan himself.  There were no loopholes, no exceptions.  It was an ironclad fort to repel all invaders.

Crowley stood in his bay window admiring his handiwork.  His gaze shifted as he noticed Aziraphale.

They made eye contact.  Crowley reached over and let the blinds down, blocking the only view into the flat.

Aziraphale spread his wings and headed back in the direction of Soho.

* * *

Aziraphale finally had mail when he got back to the shop. A whole pile of it.

It suddenly seemed like even reading a letter would take far too much energy. Nevertheless, he forced himself to sit down and open the first one in the stack, which had Uriel’s seal on it.

_To all loyal servants of our Heavenly Father:_

_Hell has struck first, destroying the Lord’s Temple in Jerusalem.  Never have we suffered such an injustice.  Our Heavenly Father’s Plan will delay no longer, for no reason.  The War will have to proceed without an Antichrist. The Final Battle draws near, and we shall obliterate Hell’s armies, no matter who is sitting on the Throne. Stand By For Orders At First Light._

_-The Archangel Uriel_

Aziraphale cursed mightily, balled the letter up, and threw it at the wall, where it burst into flames under his will and scattered as ashes.

“Fuck you!” Aziraphale said.  “You can’t do that!  You can’t—just—The Ineffable Plan!”

How were they going to make _that_ work?  The antichrist was what was supposed to turn the Earth into the battlefield upon which Heaven and Hell would fight.  Without it…

Well, they were off-script.  They were now free to figure it out.  And they would probably find a way to make it work, and it would probably be much worse than anything Adam or Noah would have ever done to this planet.

Aziraphale’s blood was already boiling.  He slammed his desk open, withdrew a piece of parchment, and addressed it:

_To Uriel, you utter bitch_

His pen nib broke on the surface, spattering ink everywhere and obliterating the words he had just written.

He removed his ink-laden hands and took a deep breath.  “Steady. Steady.”

He sat there for a few minutes, focusing on his breathing, calming himself down.  When he was finished, he realized he would get nowhere writing Uriel, and that his impulsive letter being thwarted had probably saved him from a painful end at Heaven’s hands.

“All right,” he said to himself.  “Let’s see what these other letters are.”

He sifted through the pile until he saw one with Maltha’s seal on it. He snatched it up and opened it immediately, even though it was addressed to Crowley.

_Crowley,_

_I have no knowledge of what happened at the Temple.  Any war that will destroy Earth will not proceed as long as I sit on Hell’s throne._

_Beth is no longer with us. Do not send mail for her here again._

_Do not come down to Hell as I cannot guarantee your safety at this time._

_-The Archdemon Maltha_

That wasn’t reassuring, actually. Aziraphale crumpled that letter in his hand, frustration overtaking him.   _Someone_ , somewhere had to be lying.  He had no idea who it was, though.  The obvious choice was Maltha, but surely, _surely_ she…

And that _I cannot guarantee your safety_ was ominous, either if it was true or if it had been fabricated to keep them away.

And what happened to Beth?  Maltha didn’t sound particularly upset about it.

His thoughts from earlier were coming back.  Because if Maltha really _had_ just wanted Hell’s throne to strike at Heaven, she wouldn’t actually care about Beth at all, and now that the pretense was over, she could stop pretending.

Aziraphale set the other letters aside to write back to her.

_Maltha, Beth trusted you for her safety in Hell.  Where is she? Why are you not upset about what’s happening?  Please tell me more details about what’s going on.  -Aziraphale._

He sent the letter out and moved to continue answering his pile of mail, but a piece of infernal parchment with Maltha’s seal on it materialized and smacked him in the face a few seconds after that.

He unfurled it to see that it read:   _DO YOU HONESTLY THINK I’M NOT UPSET????_

And now Aziraphale’s thoughts were swinging in the _other_ direction, that maybe whatever had happened to Beth could enrage Maltha _so_ much that she would break all the rules to strike back at whoever had hurt her, regardless of consequences, the Earth and everyone else be damned.

And if it had been _Heaven_ who had hurt Beth, well….  That would have set a precedent for breaking the rules that normally kept everyone from destroying shrines and interfering directly in human affairs.

But is that something Heaven would do?  Which of the archangels would be desperate enough to authorize something like that?

Maybe any of them, because there was a lot he was missing behind the scenes.  The gloves were off.  Nobody was pulling punches.  Everyone with _arch_ in their title was trying to throw their weight around for something.

Except Michael, who had been curiously silent this entire time for someone who was in danger of being cast out of Heaven and had been betrayed by the brother who claimed to love him the most.

He tacked that letter onto his corkboard to give himself some time to think of how to respond.

The next letter read:

_Aziraphale,_

_It is imperative I talk to Crowley as soon as possible.  Expect a visit from me first thing tomorrow morning, please._

_-The Power Victoria_

He wasn’t looking forward to that visit at all, especially once Victoria found out how Crowley had locked himself in his flat. He burned that letter so that he could say it never came, just in case.

The removal of Victoria’s letter revealed a general address with Gabriel’s seal on it:

_It has come to our attention that recently some of our agents have been going missing from the field.  The list of angels who have failed to respond to summons currently includes ten principalities, eight warriors, two clericals, and one healer.  If anyone has any information relating to the whereabouts of these angels, please bring it to the attention of your archangel immediately.  We have intel that suggests Hell may have kidnapped them.  Know that we do not take this lightly.  The first step in our war efforts will be to locate and retrieve these victims.  We urge everyone to take appropriate caution when in the field and interacting with infernal agents._

_Please note that this does not include the principality Aziraphale.  He is accounted for as of this morning._

- _The Archangel Gabriel_

Aziraphale kept that letter in his hand for a moment.  He read it three or four times.  And he could not decide what to make of it.

He could practically hear the disdain dripping from that last line, and imagined Gabriel had resisted the urge to add _Though it would have better for all of us if he had stayed missing_ to the end of it.

Had renegades in Hell taken it upon themselves to start the war because Maltha wouldn’t?  Were they kidnapping these angels?

They all had gone on secret getaway vacations.  All at once.  Surely that was it.

He sorted through the pile to find a few letters from his demons, nervously reporting that they could not find their angelic counterparts, and urging him to be careful upon the fear that he might go missing as well.

He left those unanswered.  Instead, he took out another piece of parchment and scribbled another letter to Maltha, repeating his query for information.

He sat at his desk waiting for Maltha to respond, feeling like this whole experience so far would have taken years off his life had he been mortal.

Maltha’s response, when it came, was not reassuring:

_Aziraphale, this does not concern you. Please let me handle this._

He scribbled a response quickly, angrily, and sent it down, and then immediately regretted using such harsh language against Maltha.  No response materialized, so Aziraphale moved on.

All right, there were only two letters left.  One was from Metatron, who rarely wrote anyone at all, so that was curious.

_To all:_

_Recently there have been rumors that the archangel Michael will be summoned to a Tribunal to cast him out of Heaven.  Please rest assured that there is no truth to this.  Michael’s participation in the war is integral to our success and he will perform as expected.  If you have any concerns about Michael, please address them to Raphael._

_There has also been speculation about the involvement of a certain demon in this whole affair.  We would like to make a statement that harming him will do nothing to resolve this situation._

_- ~~The Voice of God~~ The Metatron_

That last part took Aziraphale by surprise.  He wouldn’t have thought Metatron would care about Crowley’s wellbeing.

Then again, if the story was that Raphael was pressing this case against Michael on Crowley’s behalf, Crowley might be of no use dead.  He needed to call Raphael off, not disappear again.  And anyone harming Crowley might just give Raphael more ammunition in this fight with Gabriel.

Still, it was reassuring, even if Heaven’s motivations weren’t entirely altruistic.  Aziraphale tacked that one on his corkboard too, so that he could find it if he needed it, because he had a feeling he might have to argue with someone about that point.

That left only one message left.  It was from Gabriel, and Aziraphale felt like he really had heard enough from Gabriel today, but he opened it anyway.

_Aziraphale, you are forbidden to involve yourself with the events of the coming apocalypse just as you were last time.  We have yet to decide what to do about Crowley, but I have my doubts we can honour Camael’s bargain with him.  But maybe, if you can bring yourself to resist meddling just this one time, it could result in a more favourable outcome for the both of you.  If you value his wellbeing, I suggest you either convince him to make Raphael see reason, or keep him out of Heaven’s affairs altogether, as the natural order of things should have always been._

_-The Archangel Gabriel_

He recognized a threat when he heard one.  He released his frustration by releasing a string of the foulest curses he could think of while he tore the letter up.  Once he was finished, he regretted destroying it, because he had wanted to reply and now could no longer reference it.

This whole situation was shite.  He desperately wanted to blame somebody who was already irredeemably bad, so he could just hate them and be done with this.

He got another parchment and scribbled,

_To the archdemon Maltha,_

_I apologise for my earlier disrespect, but you must understand this situation is quite stressful for me, especially when I have no information.  I would like to express my concern about Kabata’s role in the events that are unfolding right now.  Please tell me you have executed him and he is not behind any of the current troubles. I suspect he is capable of doing something like this, and he has the motivation._

_-Aziraphale._

He sent the letter out, but had no way to occupy himself since he had reached the end of the mail, so he stood up and paced.

A letter appeared on the desk, but it wasn’t from Maltha. It was from Oryss.

 _Aziraphale_ ,

_Olivia has received an address from Uriel declaring the War is imminent.  What’s the plan?????_

_-Oryss_

He was about to reply, but a letter from Botis materialized directly on top of it.

_AZIRAPHALE,_

_I HAVE HEARD HEAVEN HAS PLANS TO COMMENCE THE WAR IMMEDIATELY.  PLEASE ADVISE_

_-BOTIS_

A third letter fell onto his hands before he was finished reading the last one. It was addressed from Adramelech.

Before he could even open it, a slew of new letters spilled out of his inbox, avalanching over his desk.  

His demons.  Apparently Uriel’s announcement had just reached them and broken that floodgate. They were panicking.  Of course they were panicking.  Why wouldn’t they be?

Quite a few of them were concerned that Maltha was going to sit idle and let Heaven kill them because of her unwillingness to destroy the Earth.  An equal number were concerned that Maltha was going to drop her vow to protect Earth for the sake of engaging Heaven.  She had the antichrist, after all, and even if Noah was _technically_ the heir, she was the one sitting on the throne and could push her own agenda as she pleased.  Aziraphale had seen firsthand how vulnerable to manipulation Noah was, and they had handed him over to Maltha completely to go back to Hell where she would have whatever influence on him she wanted.  It was something Aziraphale had never bothered to worry about because they had always seemingly had common goals.

Maltha had fought to save the Earth.  Surely that wouldn’t just have been a ploy to get at the throne?   _Surely_ not?  Maltha had needed to be convinced to take the throne at all.

The thought chewed at him, no matter how unlikely it seemed.  Someone, somewhere was in the middle of a plan that had been set into motion some time ago, and he couldn’t tell who it was.

He briefly thought about getting his legion assembled back in his bookshop in preparation for whatever might happen, but the doubt from earlier creeped back into his mind and he was no longer sure he could trust them.

If he could doubt Crowley, if he could doubt Maltha, then how could he trust these demons he had only met just recently?  

It was a rather uncharitable thought.  They had all offered to give their lives for him.  But Aziraphale could not suppress the nagging thoughts.  He eventually wrote back and told them to just wait where they were, and he would keep them updated.  He was not a very good commander of anything.

Maltha finally replied.

_Aziraphale,_

_Do you think you’re really so special that you’re the only one under stress?  Heaven has just declared war on me, so I could really do without your self-pity-party at this point._

_As charming and patronizing as I find it that you think I maybe have overlooked **such a major security detail as the archdemons** under my command, I have Kabata under control.  He spends most of his days loitering in the seventh circle doing nothing in particular.  His ambitions for the throne are dead, and he understands completely it is out of his reach.  He seems to bear more ill-will towards Heaven than towards any of us._

_Please understand why I cannot execute Kabata or mistreat him.  In the interest of making a new, fairer Hell, I have laid out certain standards of behaviour for the denizens of Hell at Noah’s discretion.  Kabata has been behaving quite well, actually.  Please understand that if I break the rules I myself have set out, and begin doling out punishment based on _my personal feelings_  or suspicion alone, everyone will view me no differently than Satan, which would make everything collapse back into the chaos of old Hell.  Execution and bodily harm is being withheld as a punishment except as a last resort. I can think of a few for whom it would be appropriate, including Duke Hastur, but Kabata is not one of them.  Now, please keep yourself safe, keep out of this, and stop pestering me._

_-Ruler of Hell, the Archdemon Maltha_

How dare he, Aziraphale wanted to say.  How dare Kabata mind his own business and be inoffensive? When Aziraphale needed someone to blame so badly?  He remained unconvinced and ruminated on the possibility that Kabata was working with the rebels in Hell to kidnap the angels and had destroyed the Temple.

It was much easier to stomach than any of the alternatives.

Maltha had never been one to mince words or be anything but brusque, but it seemed like Maltha was withholding something from him on purpose. Keep out of this?  Since when had Aziraphale and Crowley ever stopped meddling just because it was the logical thing to do?

Aziraphale cursed aloud, sweeping all the messages off his desk.  He stomped over to the couch and curled up, pulling a blanket over his head.  He hated this.  He was too angry and frustrated to even read to try and calm himself down.  So he did what people usually do when they can’t decide on a course of action:  nothing.

He didn’t know what the next day would bring, but he wasn’t looking forward to any of it at all.

* * *

The promised orders from Uriel never came, at least for Aziraphale, but Victoria showed up just as announced, bright and early.  Aziraphale hadn’t realized how much he had gotten into the habit of sleeping late, sleeping in the same bed as Crowley, and her arrival woke him up.

He knew there was going to be trouble as soon as he saw the look on her face when Aziraphale came out alone. “Well, where is Crowley?”

“He’s at his flat. He’s locked himself in, and doesn’t want to be bothered.”

“It doesn’t matter what he wants!” said Victoria, fire in her eyes.  “This is life and death, Aziraphale!  I can’t just sit here and do nothing because he had a temper tantrum because he finally got caught in a lie!”

Aziraphale bristled, then deliberately turned his back so Victoria couldn’t see his expression. “Come sit down.  Let’s have a cup of tea.”

Victoria’s armor clanked on the chair as she sat in his kitchenette.  Aziraphale turned on the kettle, trying to decide exactly how to plot this interaction with her.

He set out the dishware and poured her a cup.  “Now, why don’t you tell me _, calmly,_ exactly what it is you want to say to Crowley.”

She took it grudgingly. “I want to tell him to ask Raphael to drop the case for Michael falling.”

Aziraphale took his seat and primly crossed his legs.  “That’s verbatim what Gabriel tried to say.  It didn’t work when he did it, and you’ll do no better.  If that’s all you’re going to do, I won’t let you go to him, because you’ll just make things worse.”

Victoria smashed her cup on the table and spilled tea everywhere.

“Victoria!”

“Goddamn it, Aziraphale.  He _did_ seduce you.  I didn’t want to believe it.  I was wrong about him.  I was _so_ wrong about him.  He’s worse than worthless.  I shook his hand and looked him in the eye and told him he was honourable, and then he does _this._ ”

“ _Victoria!_ ” Aziraphale shouted.  “If you’re just going to come into my house and destroy my belongings, I’ll ask you to leave.  Control your temper.”

 _What happened to you?_ he wanted to ask.   _You were doing so well.  And now you’re back to toeing Heaven’s line wholesale._

Victoria looked regretfully at the glazed shards littering the table, but she did not apologise.

“You won’t get anywhere by acting like that.”

“Aziraphale, just listen to yourself. The archangel Michael is in danger of falling for no reason.  There’s _no_ reason.  Except for Crowley.”

Aziraphale tried to hide his brooding expression behind his cup.

“You should be infuriated at him.  You should—you should be over there talking to him this very instant!”

“Crowley maintains he did not talk to Raphael about this at all.  We just found out when we got back yesterday.”

“He’s lying! Aziraphale, it’s so obvious!  How can you be so blind to it?  Everyone was waiting for something like this to happen—”

“I beg your pardon!”

“Oh, come off it, Aziraphale.  He’s a demon. It was only a matter of time before he showed his true colours.  He thought he could get away with using his new leverage with Heaven for his personal gain, and now it’s backfired on him.”

Aziraphale’s thoughts about Maltha pressuring him into it returned. If Maltha was behind the attack on the Temple, it would make sense to want to take Michael away from Heaven at this critical moment.  It _was_ possible Crowley had slipped away—they hadn’t spent 24/7 with each other, and it could have been as simple as exchanging letters. And Crowley _would_ have known Aziraphale would be upset by it…

Aziraphale grimaced into his cup.  “Listen, Victoria, I’m sure there’s a very good reason for whatever’s happening now.  Raphael isn’t a bad person, and neither is Crowley.”

“Michael never did anything other than try to be your friend,” said Victoria viciously.

Aziraphale slammed his teacup on the table.  “He also murdered a score of my friends in front of me, so you’ll have to pardon me if I have mixed feelings!”

Victoria looked down at the shards of her cup angrily.  Aziraphale sighed.  They both sat in silence, listening to the ticking of the clock.

“Noah set everything right,” Victoria started again.  “In the end, no one was hurt.  So there’s no need to punish Michael.”

“Sounds fair,” said Aziraphale.

“So go get Crowley to agree with you!”

Aziraphale crossed his arms.

“Listen, Aziraphale,” said Victoria, leaning in.  “You know firsthand how clever he is.  Don’t you think he could have orchestrated this?”

“I admit he is clever enough to have done it, but that doesn’t mean he _would_ have.”

“Just think about it,” said Victoria.  “He’s participated in the deaths of Ba’al Berith, Agares, and Satan himself—the head of Hell and two down his list of successors.  And then the throne suddenly falls upon his old master, Maltha.  And now Hell is poised to be in a position to win the war, with Heaven crippled by the loss of the Temple and in danger of losing its Sword.  Doesn’t it seem a little too convenient?”

“What are you saying? That he planned this from the beginning?”

“He corrupted all of Creation.  I have my suspicions.”

Aziraphale exploded, “Are you a bloody fool?  Crowley was, at best, an unwilling accomplice in all three of those deaths, and he had _no_ control over who succeeded Satan.  He had nothing to do with the Temple, and he has no motivation to try and make Michael fall!  Bloody hell, are you going to blame him for Satan leading the rebellion next?”

Victoria stared at him as he caught his breath.  “Your love has blinded you.”

“Your biases have blinded _you._ ”

“Listen, Aziraphale. He got angry and stormed off the second you started asking him about what he might have done, right?  He’s manipulating you.  It’s so obvious to everyone else.  He’s trained you to be afraid to question him because you don’t want to upset him.  And when you get back together, you’ll take his side because you feel like you have to.”

Aziraphale had to admit Crowley’s reaction had seemed over the top.  A black tendril of doubt began to creep into his brain.

“Raphael says Crowley asked him to.  Gabriel believes it.  Neither of them has any motivation to lie.  Raphael does not have any ulterior motives in his actions.  He loves Michael more than any of the other archangels.  I think Raphael would give his _life_ to save Michael if he had to.  That leaves only one possible source of where this could have come from, and that source is already proven to be a traitor and a liar dozens of times over.  It is obvious.”

Aziraphale could offer no rebuttal.  He knew Crowley well, and loved him, but that suddenly seemed insufficient.

“If we have both been blinded, then I suppose we are even,” said Victoria, sweeping the remains of her cup into a little pile, “and we should meet somewhere in the middle.  Let’s assume that Crowley is telling the truth, and he did not ask Raphael to do this.  In that case, we can ask him to talk to Raphael and call it off.  Whyever Raphael is doing this, if Crowley tells him to stop, he’ll have no excuse to keep going.”

“Gabriel also arranged that. Raphael waved him off.”

“We can arrange a private meeting.  Without Gabriel.  Just us. Hell, just you two and Raphael if you want.  I don’t need to be part of this.  I just want to save Michael, Aziraphale.  I want to save him.  Heaven needs him.  And he doesn’t deserve this.”

Aziraphale suddenly detected the emotion in her voice.  “You’re really worried about him, aren’t you?”

Her face scrunched up, and she suddenly yelled, “Of course I’m bloody worried about him!  I may have been under Camael’s command, but I’m still a warrior, and Michael...he’s my big brother, Aziraphale, and they’re just going to cast him into the Pits of Hell instead of try to save him, and I didn’t realize how much he meant to me until I thought of the possibility of losing him, and...”

Victoria was scared, more scared than Aziraphale had realized.   _That_  was what had happened to her:  In her fear, she was falling back on what was familiar, comfortable, and safe.

Tears finally brimmed over in her eyes, and she went on, “And I don’t understand why God would _make_  him like this, design him to turn into an emotionless killing machine and then make him _want_  to be gentle...”

Victoria clamped her hand over her mouth, realizing the gravity of what she had just said, looking at Aziraphale with absolute panic.

“I won’t tell anyone if you question,” said Aziraphale.  “You can say anything on your mind.”

Victoria removed her hand, sniffling.  “It isn’t _fair._   He doesn’t deserve this.  He was always the first to jump to try and help others and he deserves some help when it’s his turn, not to have everyone turn their backs on him, just because he’s made mistakes that he has no way to make up for.”

Aziraphale dared move his hand across the table to rest it on hers.  “I’m sorry.  Whatever’s happening, we’ll sort it out.”  He withdrew.  “Hey. I heard they were considering making you an archangel to replace Camael.  Then they’d have to take your view seriously.”

Victoria let out a tiny laugh.  “Yeah.  I don’t know why they’ve been dragging their feet on choosing the new archangel.  I think it might be political.  Figures I’ll get promoted on politics and not because of my hard work.  Because Gabriel needs help to beat down Raphael.  But when I get my hands on Raphael...”

Aziraphale folded his hands and waited.  Victoria seemed to be in the middle of a fantasy for a moment, and then she shook her head and returned to the present.  “There’s something going on, Aziraphale.  This is bigger than just what Raphael is doing.  There’s some kind of conspiracy against Michael, it has to be.”

“A conspiracy?”

“You know those angels that have gone missing?  The eight warriors were from among Michael’s personal guard.”

“What?”

“His core of most loyal friends and subordinates.  They just up and vanished.  Kidnapped by Hell?  I don’t think so.”

Aziraphale wanted to point out she was basically accusing Gabriel of lying, but thought better of it. She had a point, though.  That was too coincidental.

Was someone in Heaven taking them to task?  Getting them out of the way?  “What about Angelo?  Did he go missing with them?”

“No,” said Victoria, looking troubled.  “He...well, Michael hurt Angelo, and--”

“What!”

“Apparently it was pretty serious.  I’m not sure where Michael is right now, but they’re keeping them separated.  I think Angelo is just loitering around Heaven right now.  He’s been kind of pushed to the side.  He doesn’t have any real authority without Michael around.”

Aziraphale grimaced. 

“I’m not the only one upset about this, Aziraphale.  Everyone is waiting with bated breath to see what happens.”

Aziraphale sipped his tea.  Victoria’s outburst seemed to have calmed her down a little.  “I’m sorry I broke your cup, Aziraphale.  But I really want to talk to Crowley.  I promise that I’ll be calm and respectful to him.  Will you please take me to see him?  I promise if you or he say I should leave, I’ll be gone right away. I can’t just do nothing.  I have to at least try.  Raphael had always been friendly with him before.  Maybe I can convince him to agree to a one-on-one with Raphael if I can arrange it.”

“Okay,” said Aziraphale. “Okay, we’ll give it a try.  He might have calmed down by now.”  He made his way to the liquor cabinet.  “I’ll bring something that might improve his mood.”

* * *

Victoria got some strange looks in the hallway on account of the fact that she was in her light armor, but she ignored them, oblivious.

There was a wiggly sigil painted on the outside of Crowley’s front door in drippy red spray paint. The neighbors must have loved that. Aziraphale was a bit afraid to touch it, but it looked more like an anti-demon symbol than an anti-angel one.

“Crowley,” said Aziraphale, knocking on the door.  His hand felt like it was hitting cold steel.  The ethereal walls were that thick.

There was a rustling sound from the other side of the door, evidence of activity.  Then, a stereo clicked on, muffled music blasting through the door.

“Oh, come on, Crowley,” said Aziraphale, banging on the door again.  “Don’t be like that.  I need to talk to you.”

The music increased in volume.

Aziraphale sighed. “Come on, Crowley.  I brought you a bottle of that nice chateau you like so much.  I just want to talk to you for a few minutes.”

A pause.  The music clicked off.  Footsteps approached the door.  The chain rattled off, and the door swung open.  The sigils must have been linked to the one on the door, because as soon as it opened, the walls fell, humming in the background, ready to go back up as soon as the door shut again.

Crowley, in a pair of rumpled sweatpants with hair all mussed, looked Aziraphale up and down. Then his eyes fell on Victoria.

“You brought _her_ here?” he hissed, but Aziraphale had already got his foot in the door and was halfway in.

“We need to talk, Crowley, just for a minute, okay?  Come on, you can have this wine all to yourself.”

Crowley scowled and backed into his flat.  Victoria and Aziraphale came in, shutting the door behind them.  The walls zoomed back up, the flat resuming its function of ironclad fortress.

“Aziraphale,” the demon said in a low voice, “use your brain; the warrior angels are going to have the most reason to be upset with me.  You can’t—”

“Crowley,” said Victoria, “I just want to talk with you.  That’s all.  We’re on the same side here.”  

Aziraphale said, “This is _Victoria_ we’re talking about here. You know her. Please calm down and take a seat.”

Crowley, still visibly angry, deliberately walked away from them into the kitchen, got exactly one wine glass, and came back out to plop onto the couch.

“Well, go ahead and say whatever the hell is so important,” said Crowley, prying the cork off the wine bottle.

“Crowley,” said Victoria, leaning in.  “Just let me talk for a moment, all right?  Let’s look at the facts.  Raphael is pushing for Michael to be cast out of Heaven.  He claims it’s at your request.  Gabriel, Uriel, and Metatron are united against him.  Hell has destroyed the Temple and the archangels have declared they’re somehow going to proceed with the War without an antichrist altogether.”

This last bit must have still been news to Crowley, for he began to down the wine without skipping a beat.

“Your old master is on the throne,” Victoria continued.  “From anyone’s perspective, you have to admit it looks like you’re doing this to try and give Hell leverage.  You have to meet us halfway.  We _need_ Michael, or Hell would destroy us.”

“You lot sound like a broken record,” said Crowley.  “I _know._  There’s still nothing I can do about it.”

“Crowley, listen,” said Victoria.  “Given the extent of your fortifications, I think you have a good idea of exactly what kind of trouble you’re in.  If you did lie, you can admit it to us.  I promise it won’t leave this room.  Whatever you’ve gotten yourself into, you can tell us, and we’ll help you dig yourself out. We can help you.  But you have to tell us what’s going on.”

“Why is it always me, huh?” said Crowley.  “Why is it when the universe needs a punching bag, it always decides, ‘oh, let’s just load it off on Crowley, I’m sure he can handle it!’  Why is it when someone needs to get the short end of the stick it always falls to me!  I used to be an optimist, you know!  Raphael said he was going to _help_ me, not throw me under the bus.”

“We can talk to Raphael,” said Victoria.  “If I can arrange for you to meet with him one-on-one, without Gabriel there, would you do it?  All you’d need to do is try one more time to ask him to drop the case against Michael.”

“It won’t work,” said Crowley.  “There’s no point.”

“You don’t know that, dear,” said Aziraphale.  “We should at least try.”

Crowley leaned forwards and opened the drawer of his coffee table, withdrawing a piece of Heaven’s parchment.  He threw it on the table.

Aziraphale and Victoria leaned forwards to read it.

_Crowley,_

_I’m so sorry. I anticipated having everything resolved before you showed up again.  Please just sit tight and keep quiet.  I’ll come find you after this is all over and make it up to you.  Gabriel is watching me like a hawk and there are certain factors at play I can’t let him find out.  Don’t try to contact me again._

_-The Archangel Raphael_

They looked back up to Crowley, who was fuming.  “Raphael’s already told me to sit down, shut up, and go along with it,” he said. “What do you want me to do?  Lie and say I’m in collusion with Raphael?”

“This letter doesn’t have Raphael’s seal on it,” said Victoria with sudden malice.  “We don’t know that he wrote this.”

“He didn’t put his seal on it so that if Gabriel got ahold of it he could say that I fabricated it,” Crowley said.  “It’s why Hell’s nobility doesn’t use seals at all.”

“Convenient,” said Victoria darkly.

“Victoria, it’s Raphael’s handwriting,” said Aziraphale gently.  “What Crowley said makes sense.”

“Nothing about this _makes sense!_ ” Victoria said with frustration surging again.  “You’re suggesting Raphael is a traitor!  And this is all so close to the destruction of the Temple!”

“I was thinking about that,” said Crowley, gesturing emphatically.  “Really, wasn’t the timing of that perfect for Gabriel? He and Raphael are fighting about Michael, and suddenly the Temple is destroyed and the war is back on, presto! Gabriel has exactly what he needs to overrule Raphael—Heaven is doomed without Michael in the war.”

“Are you suggesting _Heaven_ destroyed the Temple?” Victoria said.

“I wouldn’t put it past them,” he answered.                                                             

“I ought to smite you where you stand for suggesting that,” Victoria seethed.  “First you try to shift the blame for this onto Raphael with this extremely convenient letter that excuses you from the situation, which for all I know is fake, and then you suggest Gabriel destroyed the Temple.  Will your shameless lies never end, you vile creature?”

Crowley jammed the cork back into the wine bottle.  “We’re on the same side, huh? I think we’re done here.”

“Crowley, wait,” said Aziraphale as Victoria stormed towards the door.

“I sssaid _we’re done_ ,” he hissed.  “Get out.  Both of you.”

“I was just leaving,” said Victoria, opening the door.  “I might not be able to control myself around you any longer.”

“Wait,” said Aziraphale. “Surely we can—”

Crowley pushed the wine bottle into Aziraphale’s chest.  “You can have this back, I don’t want it.  Get out.”

“Crowley—”

“Get out!”

He found himself in the hallway a few moments later, the door closing behind him and the walls going back up around the flat.

“I told you he was manipulating you, Aziraphale,” said Victoria.  “Do you see it now?”

“Why did you say that to him?” said Aziraphale.  “You said you were going to be respectful!”

“He’s lucky I didn’t kill him,” said Victoria.  “I’m done with this.  You can play your games with your demons, Aziraphale.  They’ll never be trustworthy.  Maybe someday you’ll realize that and come to your senses. I’m going back up to Heaven to actually try and get something done about this.”

She stalked off, leaving Aziraphale with the bottle of wine in the hallway.  The music started up again from inside the flat, but this time the door did not open no matter how much he knocked.


	4. New Hell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On tumblr at http://not-a-space-alien.tumblr.com/post/162729439745/falling-hazard-part-4-new-hell
> 
> Also did u know? i have a tip jar? https://ko-fi.com/A0361U7E

 

* * *

Kabata considered any day during which he did not end up in chains a good day, and he had gotten quite used to waiting around doing nothing, but this was still pushing it a bit.

“How much longer is it going to be?” he said, trying to keep the irritation out of his voice.

“The queen and young prince are very busy,” he was told by a demon dressed in important clothing who was loitering by Hell’s throne.  “You are lucky they have time to see you at all.”

The demon telling him off had a very shrill voice, and it was annoying to listen to, so he was hesitant to speak again lest he get a reply.  But he could not resist speaking, in the way all disgruntled people are tempted to speak.  “I hardly think it’s _lucky_ considering I was summoned here at _her_ request, not mine, and then made to wait two hours despite that I was perfectly on time.”

“You are _lucky_ ,” said the demon, in that anticipated annoying voice, “that you are alive at all, because the queen and young prince are merciful.”

“It’s a good thing you reminded me of that again.  I might have forgotten, since I haven’t heard it since five minutes ago.”

“Sarcasm will get you nowhere!” the demon shrieked, and it was at this point that Kabata gave up entirely, because nothing could be worth hearing that crier speak even a single word more.

Kabata sat on the floor of the throne room, on that red carpet, and crossed his legs.

“Nobody gave you permission to sit down,” said the demon by the throne.

“Well, why don’t you walk over here and pull me up, then?” said Kabata.  “Since you’re so damn enthusiastic about making sure I behave myself.”

The other demon was not powerful enough to harm Kabata in the slightest.  His power was dependent entirely on his ability to tattle to more powerful forces, who were not in the room at the time, and who would not care in the least way that Kabata had sat on the floor.  They both knew this, so the lesser demon just shut his mouth and glared at him, and reminded him that he was being watched.

The door behind the throne finally boomed open, and a gaggle of demons of varying importance spilled out, arranging themselves around the throne.  The archdemon Mammon came out at the tail of the entourage, in her bestial form, and took her position at the right hand of the throne, snorting.

Another imp stepped up and announced in a loud voice, “Presenting Maltha Queen of Hell and Noah Son of Satan, Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit-”

“I think he knows who we are, thank you,” said Maltha’s annoyed voice, and she appeared from behind the Throne.  Noah was at her side, a stuffed rabbit clutched in one hand, his other in Maltha’s left.

“Thank you for coming, Kabata,” said Maltha, seating herself on the throne.  Noah hopped up and sat on the armrest, leaning on her shoulder.  “I apologize for our lateness.  There are quite a lot of things happening right now.”

Kabata stood, then gave a grudging half-bow.  “It’s not like I have much _else_ to do, considering I’m only permitted to roam freely in about three chambers in the ninth layer.”

“Yes, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about,” said Maltha.  A court scribe by her side materialized a piece of parchment and began to scribble on it, copying down her words.  “There are going to be some things happening here in the ninth layer soon, and I don’t trust you enough to have you hanging about where you could get into trouble.”

Kabata clenched his teeth, because that could only mean he would be going back either into the Pit or into one of the dungeons.

“And this has left me with a difficult decision,” said Maltha, tapping her finger on the armrest, “because I set out the rule that no one who had been released would be forced back into imprisonment unless they proved they were dangerous, and you have been quite obedient.  It would be unfair of me to throw you back in with the archdemons who refuse to cooperate. Which would only prove that no fairness can exist in Hell, which is not what I want in the slightest.  Noah and I want new Hell to be better than the old one.”

Kabata had never believed for a second Maltha would treat him fairly.  He had been waiting for this to happen.  And nobody would argue he deserved anything more, because he didn’t.

“You see, Kabata,” began Maltha.

“Just get on with chaining me up already,” Kabata interrupted.  “We all know that’s what you’re getting at.”

All the demons in the court looked at him with shocked expressions.

“You will not interrupt the queen when she is speaking!” that same annoying demon shrieked.

Maltha held out her hand, a distasteful expression on her face, as though she shared the same opinion as Kabata on his voice.  “Please. I have had greater harm done to me than being interrupted.  Why don’t you….Ah, go get Toby for me, would you?”

“Yes, my queen!” the demon screamed, and Maltha cringed.

Everyone was relieved when he left the room.  “Now, then,” said Maltha.  “I think you misunderstand me.  I am kicking you out of the ninth layer.”

“…Kicking me out?”

“Yes. Ah, there’s Toby.”

A small, furry creature with a human head had trotted into the room.  Noah shifted his position so it could sit on the throne with them.

Maltha reached out and petted it. “Yes.  You’ll be free to go anywhere in the second through eighth layers.  This is contingent on your good behaviour.  Have you learned your lesson, Kabata?”

“I think I have, lord,” said Kabata.

The creature on Maltha’s lap purred.

“All right,” said Maltha.  “Who was it who was responsible for keeping track of his behaviour?”

“Me, lord,” said the annoying imp.

Maltha frowned.  “All right.  Hand me the list, will you?”

The demon handed her a rolled-up parchment, and she unfurled it.  “Hmm.  It says here since your last check you’ve only been involved in one incident.”

“That’s correct, Lord Maltha,” said Kabata.

“He pushed an imp down the stairs and broke her ribs,” said the crier.

“Oh, yes, I remember treating her,” said Maltha.  “Other than that I think you’ve followed all the rules.  So I think you’re ready to move on.  Noah?”

Noah nodded.  “He got my rabbit when I dropped it and couldn’t reach it.”

Kabata flushed beet red, crossing his arms and hunching up.  A few snickers rolled through the court.

Maltha frowned.  “You all think it is funny when someone helps Noah with his things?”

Nobody responded.

Maltha leaned over to stage-whisper to the scribe.  “Write down the names of everyone who just laughed at that.”

The court was dead silent after that.

“Now then,” said Maltha, folding her hands.  “This incident is the only thing standing in the way of us being convinced you have earned the right to stay out of the dungeon.  I would like to speak to the imp you harmed.  Someone go retrieve her.”

A few minutes’ time found one of the servants from the dining hall bowing in front of the throne.

“Now, then,” said Maltha. “Kabata pushed you down the stairs, is that right?”

“He head-butted me,” said the imp.  “That is what broke my ribs, not the fall.”

“All right,” said Maltha. “Kabata, why did you attack this defenseless imp?”

Kabata flicked his ear. “Because she made an inappropriate comment.”

“Has he made it up to you?” she said to the imp.

“Yes, lord. He did my duties for a week while I healed, and then for an extra day while I went swimming in the fourth layer.”

“And what are your duties?”

“Cleaning the dining hall.”

“Kabata cleaned the dining hall for a week and you got a vacation.”

“Yes, Lord.”

Maltha hid her mouth with her hand.  “That sounds fair.  And I have to ask, what was the comment you made?”

“Lord Maltha,” said Kabata, “she…insinuated that you and I were having…relations…and that you were sexually dominating me.”

Maltha clapped her hand over her mouth and shook with suppressed giggles.  Kabata’s arms remained crossed and his skin flushed red.

“Oh dear,” said Maltha, wiping her eye.  “All right. That was a rather rude comment to make, you know.”

The imp curtsied.  “I know, Lord Maltha. I apologize for the disrespect.”

“What were the circumstances?  You sought out Kabata just to tease him?”

“No, Lord.  I was walking through the servants’ passages and ran into him, and it startled me.  I was afraid, so I acted out on instinct. It was a mistake.”

“The servants’ passages?” said Maltha. “What were you doing in there?”

Kabata clenched his jaw.

“Kabata,” said Maltha in a warning tone.  “What were you doing in the servants’ passages?”

“He was fraternizing when I found him, Lord,” the imp offered.

“Fraternizing?”

“In the…sense of the word it would be inappropriate to say in polite company, Lord.”

Maltha tried not to laugh again.  “And who was he _fraternizing_ with?”

“The kitchen staff.”

“I’d like to talk to whoever it was he was doing this with.”

Another few minutes’ time found a pair of imps in servants’ uniforms bowing before the throne.

“All right,” said Maltha. “Which of you two was it that Kabata was fornicating with before he pushed this imp down the stairs?”

“Both of us, Lord,” said one of them.

Maltha hid her face in her hands, her entire body vibrating with muffled laughter.

“Do you maybe want to _clarify_ whose idea it was _,_ ” Kabata snapped at the two imps, humiliated.  “So that the queen does not get the impression I go around randomly molesting her servants?”

“I initiated it, Lord,” said one of the imps, stepping forward. “I apologize.  It was a mistake.”

“I just can’t…” Maltha said, out of breath from laughing. “That _is_ quite ambitious, oh my.  Oh somebody. All right. All right.”

She materialized a glass of water, drank it, then cleared her throat.  “All right.  Sorry.  All right. So what happened was as follows: Kabata was having intercourse with these two imps.  You walked in on him, and it startled you so much that you made a rude comment without thinking.  It angered him, and he head-butted you, breaking your ribs and sending you down the stairs.  To atone, Kabata did your chores for a week, and you got a vacation. Is that about right?”

Everyone present nodded. The scribe scribbled as fast as they could.

“And is everyone satisfied with the standing of the situation, or would any of you like to press these grievances more?”

“I’m satisfied, Lord,” said the imp who had been pushed down the stairs.

The pair of imps half-heartedly agreed.  Kabata flared his nostrils and said nothing.

“All right, thank you. You’re dismissed.”

The imps bowed and took their leave, leaving Kabata alone before the throne once more.

“That sounds fair,” said Maltha. “Noah?”

“S’all right,” said the boy.

“Okay, then.  Kabata, you’re officially in the clear.  Where is my court spellcaster?”

A demon from the court stepped forwards.

“Ah, there you are. Tell me, what kind of spells can you do long-distance?”

“In my arsenal I have location spells, scrying spells, summoning spells, and one that can cause pain with diminishing returns according the inverse square of the distance between targets,” the spellcaster reported.

“What would you need from Kabata’s person to cast any of those on him?”

“I should think a bit of his horn would be sufficient, Lord.”

Maltha materialized a large file, and stretched out her arm to hand it to her.  “Whatever amount you need to carry out one of each of those, take about twice that, so we will have some leftover.”

The spellcaster took the file and hesitantly approached Kabata, who grudgingly knelt to allow the smaller demon to reach his horn.

The file dropped grits of horn on the floor as the spellcaster worked.

“This means if I find out Kabata is misbehaving, I can recall him back into the dungeons instantly, or see what he’s up to, correct?”

“Yes, lord,” said the spellcaster, sweating, because she was having trouble detaching the horn.

Kabata gave an impatient sigh, yanked his head away from the spellcaster, and smashed his head against the ground. The chunk of horn broke off along the line where the file had perforated it.

The spellcaster knelt to take it, then scurried back over to Maltha’s side.

“May I see that?” said Maltha.

The spellcaster handed it to her.  She hefted it in her hands. It was about the size of her fist.

She looked up to Kabata, standing there with one-and-a-half horns.  “You know, sometimes I wish I had a pair of horns. Is that the secret to getting everyone to respect you?  Having a great big pair of horns popping out of your head?”

“I would not know, Lord,” Kabata replied.

She tapped her fingers on the horn.  “All right, Kabata, you’re free to go.  Keep out of the ninth layer, and if you step one foot into Limbo, I’ll know, and you’ll find yourself back here in a heartbeat.”  She held the horn up.  “And don’t do anything you wouldn’t do in front of me.”

“Of course, Lord.”

Kabata turned, trotting towards the exit of the throne room.  He stopped, turning back.  “May I ask one question before I go?”

“All right,” said Maltha.

“What has happened to the queen’s consort?”

Maltha’s face twisted into rage.  “That is none of _your_ concern.  Now get out of my sight before I change my mind.”

The door boomed shut behind him.

* * *

The exit to Hell, in the ceiling of Limbo, is faintly visible from the mouth of the second circle, if you stood in one exact spot and craned your neck the correct way.

This one precise spot is where Kabata was standing, or more precisely, lying down, with his back flat on the ground.  The light from the exit, and consequently the Earth’s sky was a pinprick far, far above him, as though he were at the bottom of a very, very, very deep well.

“They can put all the distance between us they want to,” said Kabata to the ghost of the sky he could see.  “But I’ll still get to you.  I’ll figure out a way.  Mark my words.”

He sat in the semidarkness of the second layer, at the very edge of where he had been permitted to go.

“You’re a real loser, you know that?” he said softly to himself.  “A goddamn loser.  A real fucking goddamn loser.  In every sense of all three of those words.”

He extended a hand out and framed the pinprick of light between his fingers.  “Not even Raphael wants to help you, and he wants to help everyone. What a piece of work.  Out of all the paths you could have chosen, out of all the people Kabata could have become….this is what you picked.”

There was not even a gust of wind to break the silence.  He was utterly consumed with his lonesomeness.

“And the only one who ever really liked you as a person…”

He trailed off, thinking of her.  That tiny laugh, like a wind chime.  That shy innocence, that fearful hope with which she had looked at him.  That had been genuine, the only genuine interpersonal connection he had ever made.  And he had just thrown it away without giving it a second thought.

Maybe he ought to give it another chance.  There was only one place in Hell where he might be welcomed at this point.

Something slapped his outstretched hand, as though giving him a high-five.  Kabata frowned.

A pair of faces leaned into his vision, blocking his view of limbo.

Kabata sat up. The two figures drew back.

“Kabata, isn’t it?” said one of the demons, the male one.  “I don’t think we’ve ever met, but I’m a big fan of yours. Big fan.”

“Fan?” echoed Kabata.

“Duke Hastur,” said the demon, shaking Kabata’s hand without his consent.  “And this is my associate, Duke Jezebel.”

“A pleasure,” said the other demon sweetly, the female one, also shaking his hand without asking.

“I heard the way you were responsible for Crowley’s death,” said Duke Hastur.  “Lovely work, really. Wish I’d thought of it myself.  Also wish Satan’s kid hadn’t undone it.  It was a positive change.”

“All right,” said Kabata. “Thanks, I guess.”

Hastur paused for a moment, as though waiting for Kabata to haul himself up off the floor. When the archdemon did not move, Hastur pressed on, “Kabata, sir, Duke Jezebel and I wanted to talk to you about something.  An opportunity.”

“What’s that?”

“Well,” said Jezebel, oozing up to him, putting her hands on his shoulders, with forced familiarity. “You see, Kabata, Duke Hastur and I have a little operation going on here in Hell.  A rebellion against the current regime.”

“Mmm,” said Kabata. “Yes, I remember that. Maltha and Noah were a bit upset whenever it was brought up. How’s that going?”

“Well, not very well, to be honest,” said Hastur.  “You see, Jezebel and I have been leading it, but there’s only so much a duke can do. You know?  What we _really_ need is an archdemon.  That would really give us a head, a sense of legitimacy, a chance to actually take the throne back.  You know?”

Jezebel squeezed his shoulders.  “Mmm,” said Kabata.  “That’s unfortunate, because Maltha has all the archdemons hostile to her locked up in the Pit and in the dungeons.”

Jezebel and Hastur looked at each other.

“What we’re trying to say,” Jezebel tried, “is that if we were to, say, _find_ one who _wasn’t_ , that would be ideal for us.  And we could, say, meet him and take him back to the other factions loyal to _Satan_ and the _old Hell_ , and he could help us out by becoming a figurehead.”

“If you were loyal to Satan, you would have followed his son, Noah,” said Kabata.

“Er,” said Jezebel. “We mean we’re loyal to his legacy and his regime.  Noah is technically his son, but his judgement choosing a regent was obviously a little flawed.  Our master would be beside himself to see what has become of his kingdom.  We’re fighting to put a proper successor on his throne.  His _spiritual_ successor.”

“Oh,” said Kabata. “Yes, that makes sense.”  He finally stood, tapping his hoof against the ground to dislodge a rock that had become wedged in it.  “Well, good luck with that, then.”

Jezebel and Hastur both looked dismayed as he picked his way towards the entrance to the third layer.

“Er, wait wait wait,” said Hastur, rushing to catch up with him.  “You, we meant you, lord Kabata.”

“You would be the one to be put on the throne after Maltha was removed,” said Jezebel, hurrying to his other side.  “But you wouldn’t need to coordinate the rebellion.  Me and Hastur have got that covered.  Ah, unless you want to of course.”

“Come on,” said Hastur. “You’re the perfect candidate. You already had Hell united behind you for a split second.  You were a hairsbreadth away from the throne.  It wouldn’t take that much to get that momentum going again.”

“And then you could get revenge on Aziraphale and Crowley,” said Jezebel.  “You could lock them up and torture them or kill them if you wanted. You could do whatever you wanted. You would have the throne.”

“Oh, yes,” said Hastur. “I’ve heard that Crowley is just tons of fun to torture because of the sounds he makes.  But I don’t think Aziraphale has ever been tortured before.  What an honour that would be.  I was hoping to get a shot at it myself.  But obviously it would be more proper for you to do it.”

Kabata stopped walking. The two dukes circled around to stand in front of him.

“Why would I want to do that?” Kabata said, looking at the two of them like they had lobsters crawling out of their ears.

Jezebel and Hastur looked at each other. “Er,” said Hastur.  “Because they got you kicked out of Heaven?  For revenge?”

“Make them suffer the way they made you suffer?” Jezebel offered.

“You think I fell because of Aziraphale and Crowley?”

Jezebel shuffled her feet. “Well, didn’t you?”

Kabata looked at her dully. “Is that what you thought I wanted Hell’s throne for?  For petty revenge on them?”

“Erm,” said Hastur. “Well, didn’t figure you’d really need a specific reason to want the throne.”

“Thought all demons would just naturally want the throne,” Jezebel said. “Seems proper.”

“Don’t flatter yourselves,” Kabata spat.  “You all aren’t so interesting that I’d want the throne just for the sake of ruling you. You’re out of your goddamn minds. You two couldn’t coordinate wiping your own asses, let alone a successful rebellion against Maltha.”

He swept past them, hopping down into the third circle.

As he picked his way over the rocks, he heard the patter of angry feet trying to catch up to him.

“Oh you’re real tough now that Maltha isn’t around to mommy you, is that it?” said Hastur.  “You goddamn coward.  You’re lower than a worm. You’re worth less than even the lowest imp who refused to pledge loyalty to the traitorous bitch sitting on the throne right now.”

“Really?” said Kabata. “I thought just a moment ago you were my biggest fan, Hastur.”

“He’s right,” said Jezebel. “Look, she’s even taken most of his horn, and he just let her, like some type of cattle.  Did she brand you as well?”

“I have half a mind to bring you both before her,” said Kabata.  “I wonder how far _her_ patience would hold up under insults like that.”

“Is that really the best you can manage?” said Jezebel.  “Running off and telling on us?”

“Are you trying to make me feel emasculated so that I’ll feel like I have to join you to save face?” said Kabata.  “Because it’s not working. It’s just making me want to bash both your stupid fucking faces in.”

The two dukes laughed. “You wouldn’t do that,” said Jezebel. “Because you’re out on _good behaviour_ , and how _good_ does it look to get out and then _immediately_ pick a fight?  Or do you think you might lose her trust by being associated with us at all?”

“You might not be safe unless you’re with the rebel faction,” said Hastur.  “Because she can recall you at any moment if she doesn’t like the way you pick your nose or—”

Kabata lashed out and smashed his fist into the boulder besides him, leaving a huge hole crumbling in it.  Jezebel and Hastur both stood up ramrod straight.

“I am not interested,” Kabata said.  “And if the two of you don’t scurry back into whatever hole you’ve been hiding in right now, and leave me the fuck alone, there’s going to be trouble.”

The two dukes stood their ground for just a moment more.  Then they moved off, muttering.  There was not even a “Let us know if you change your mind.”

Kabata stayed where he was until they were out of sight. Then, he continued on down back to the seventh layer.

* * *

One-thousand. That’s how many times Yulera had read her bestiary.  She had just finished her one-thousandth read-through, and shut the volume carefully, then slid it back on her shelf.

She picked her way back through the clutter and threw herself onto the makeshift bed.  The cockatrice had grown on her in that last read-through, but the griffin was still her favourite.  The sphinx was a distant third.  

She rolled over, then froze at a sound from the entryway.  Something scratched at the door, the scraping sound of someone with hooves forcing their way into the mouth hole.

Absolutely beyond terrified, Yulera pressed herself into the corner. The thought of grabbing one of the many abandoned weapons in her hoard of junk never even occurred to her, because she had never thought of them as something she could use.  Instead, she whimpered and hoped whoever it was would go away.

“Yulera, it’s me.  I’m back.”

She unfroze at the sound of his voice.  “K-Kabata?”

His legs appeared from the wall, then the rest of him slid out, plopping hard onto the dirt floor.

Yulera gasped and ran over, throwing herself into his arms.  “Kabata!  You came back!  I thought for sure you were dead!”

Kabata returned her embrace uneasily.  “Maltha didn’t trust me, so she was keeping me locked up.  I can’t say I blame her.  Anyone who trusts me is a fool.”

“I trust you.”

Kabata took her over to the bed and gently set her on it.  He wanted to repeat his point about fools, but he didn’t want to hurt her feelings.

“What happened to your horn?” she gasped, running one finger along the jagged edge.

“I ran into a wall and it broke off,” Kabata said.  “It is nothing to be concerned about.”

Yulera grimaced, running her hands through his hair.  “That must have hurt a lot.  Your poor head.”

Yulera was the _first_ being to ever express any concern about Kabata experiencing pain.  He swept her up, just holding her for a moment.

“So how did it go?” said Yulera.  “Did you get the throne?”

Kabata gave a small laugh. “No.  No, I definitely didn’t.”

“Oh,” said Yulera. “Well, that’s all right, then, I guess.”

Kabata touched the tip of one of her own tiny horns.  “You really didn’t leave at all, did you?”

She did not answer.

“Did Ritze come by to visit you?”

No answer.

“Did _anyone_ come by to visit?”

“Hell was in chaos,” said Yulera. “It always is.  I’m lucky to just be safe. Don’t you get that?”

“Yulera, this isn’t healthy. You can’t just hide here forever.”

“And why not?” Yulera yelled, for the first time sounding genuinely angry.  She removed herself from the bed and stood.  “There’s nothing _out_ there for me.  Why should I bother risking myself?  Why should I?”

“You should go up to Earth,” said Kabata.  “You would like it.  There’s grass and blue skies and small animals that will let you feed them.”  He personally didn’t see the value in any of those things, but they were the kinds of things he knew she would be enchanted by.

“Earth?” she said.  “ _Earth?_ You really don’t get it!  I _can’t!_ That’s closer to _Him!_ ”

“Him?”

“To God!” she screamed. “I can still see the look on His face as He threw me out.  He could end us all at any moment.  We’re all going to end up in the Lake of Fire eventually.  We can’t fight Him.  What’s the point? What’s the point of anything?”

She collapsed onto the floor, shaking with sobs.  Kabata watched this meltdown impassively, almost impressed by how easily she flew off the rails.

Kabata grabbed her hand and squeezed it.  She looked up at him tearfully.  

“I brought something for you.”

Her tears dried and she perked up immediately, climbing back onto the bed with him.

He summoned the object from where he had hidden it and presented it to her.

“A book!” she exclaimed, snatching the peeling volume greedily.  “Where did you get this?”

“I stole it from an angel on Earth.”

Her eyes widened. “You didn’t!”

He tapped the cover. “He has an entire hoard of books. He might not have even noticed it’s gone yet.”

She gently let the book fall open to the title page. “The Key of Solomon,” she read.

“It’s a book full of powerful weapons,” said Kabata.

She looked crestfallen. “I’m not powerful enough to use any weapons,” she said, despairingly.  

One of Kabata’s meaty hands flipped the page with a delicately applied claw, revealing a passage laced with complex sigils.  “Anyone can use these.  They are weapons you use with your mind.”

She did not seem convinced. “But I’m not really that smart.”

“You are incredibly smart. You just need some confidence.”

She continued flipping the pages.  “You really think so?  You think I could do this?”

“I think you can do anything you want to.”

She looked up at him.

“You know what you should do when you’re afraid of something?” said Kabata.  “You need to channel that fear to destroy whatever is threatening you.”

“Yeah, right,” Yulera scoffed.

Kabata put his claw on the Key of Solomon.  “You take this and you learn what it says, and you’ll be able to defend yourself against anyone.”

A dreadful idea suddenly hatched in his brain, like an evil gosling.  “Hey, Yulera.”

“Yes?”

“I would like to ask a favour of you.”

She abandoned the book and put her hands on his chest. “I’ll do whatever you want.”

“I want to stay here and go through your collection.”  

Yulera gasped, ran over, grabbed her bestiary, and brought it back.  “Will you read this one first?  And pick which one is your favourite?  So we can talk about it?”

Amused, Kabata took the book from her. “All right, I’ll read it.  And while I’m doing that, I want you to do something for me.”

“Of course.  I’d do anything for you.”

“It will involve going outside.”

That gave her pause. “But I can’t do that.”

He closed the Key of Solomon and slid it into her lap.  “ _Yes,_ you can.”

She looked down at the book, resolve hardening.  “All right. What is it you want me to do?”

They had a very long conversation, at the end of which Yulera left and did not return.  And Kabata set the bestiary aside and began to look through Yulera’s store of discarded weapons.

* * *

The reason why the lowermost circle of Hell was laid out the way it was—with the main entryway forcing those who enter to pass through a hallway lined with torture chambers—was because Satan wanted it that way.

Most demons found themselves being punished there at least once in their lives, even if only for a short while.  Those who hadn’t still had to be bombarded by the screams of those who currently were.  It was a potent reminder of what kind of power their master held. By the time they reached the throne room, they had already been psychologically assaulted, and rattled so much that Satan was already in complete domination of them before they even reached his throne.  A good portion of those seeking an audience with him gave up and turned around without ever seeing him, because they had heard a particularly grisly scene unfolding on the way.

If the black rooms had still been in use, Yulera would have lost her courage and turned around halfway to the throne room.  She had no stomach for torture whatsoever.  Fortunately for her, they now lay empty under the command of more merciful rulers, so she walked past them with nothing more than a sense of tension anyone might have from the thought of trying to gain audience with the Queen of Hell.

The black hallway widened out in a huge antechamber with gold carpet.  There was an enormous demon in the center, in the shape of some fat beast with curving, wicked tusks.  It was lying down on its side, but it hauled itself up and shook its pelt as Yulera came into view.

“Hold it right there, please,” said the demon.

As a recluse, Yulera was fairly antisocial, but even she knew the names of the major archdemons. This had to be Mammon.  She froze, not sure what to do.

She remembered her promise. Kabata was counting on her.  She could do this.

She stood still as a statue as the archdemon lumbered forwards, her flat nose sniffling at her. Yulera had taken a long swim in the fourth layer before coming down to make sure Kabata’s scent was completely gone, because she knew that some demons had quite keen senses of smell.

So Mammon’s snout inspecting her turned up nothing.  Mammon withdrew a few steps, then plopped down on her rear as though the examination had thoroughly exhausted her.  “And what business do you have in the ninth layer of Hell, little one?”

Yulera stood up to her full height, which was not very impressive.  “I seek an audience with Queen Maltha and the young Prince, Noah son of Satan.”

Mammon flicked an ear. “What about?”

“I want to change jobs,” said Yulera, thinking she was doing an admirable job of keeping her voice from wavering.  “I heard that Maltha was letting smaller demons do that, instead of just forcing them to go on even if they hate it.”

Mammon snorted at her. Yulera could not tell what emotion it was indicative of.

“Lord Mammon,” said Yulera, very respectfully.  “I would appreciate it very much to be reassigned to somewhere in the ninth layer. I would like to talk to Maltha about it.”

Mammon’s eyes were half-lidded, as though bored.  “All right. Follow me.”

Yulera followed as Mammon led her into a huge open room, darkened, with vaulted ceilings and an ornate wooden table. There was a small demon at the far end, but otherwise it was empty.

“Please wait here,” said Mammon.  “Maltha is very busy.  I will come fetch you when she is ready to see you. Do not leave the table. I will know if you start wandering around.”

“Okay,” said Yulera, and remembering herself, added, “Lord.”

Mammon seemed indifferent to her mode of address, and waddled off.

Yulera took a seat at the table, as far away as she could get from the very ornate chair at the head that was obviously meant for the lord.  The other demon looked at her, but made no attempt to acknowledge her.

“Hello,” said Yulera cautiously, absolutely petrified of him even though his aura was the exact same size as hers.

He did not respond.

“What are you here for?”

“I want to change jobs,” he answered.

“Me too.  Where do you work right now?”

“The stables for the hellhorses.  But I’ve been afraid of infernal animals my whole life.”

“Can I ask you something?” she said, suddenly breathless.

“You already have, so what difference does one more question make, I suppose.”

“You work with infernal animals?  Have you ever seen a griffin?”

The other imp looked annoyed at her enthusiasm. She leaned back, clamming up, realizing she had embarrassed herself.

“No,” said the other demon.

They sat in silence for a moment.

“I have groomed Cerberus, though,” the other demon finally offered.

“Really?” said Yulera, breathless.  “That’s so cool.”

That was as far as their exchange went. Yulera desperately wanted to ask him more, but interpersonal interaction was still new and scary for her.

They passed the rest of the time in strained silence.  A third imp came out and poured tea for them.  It seemed silly to Yulera, for someone to be pouring tea for someone the same rank as them, but the imp didn’t seem to mind.  Yulera did not drink any of the tea.  Neither did the other demon who wanted to change jobs. The third imp didn’t seem to mind that, either.

Mammon beckoned them to come back out eventually, and Yulera was glad for it. Her feelings of relief dissolved back into anxiety as the door to the throne room opened.

It was a good hike from the door to the throne itself.  Yulera’s feet felt extraordinarily hard and calloused on the red carpet after so long on bare rock.

Yulera was afraid of Maltha. Yulera was afraid of everything, but she had especially good reason to be scared of Maltha. She had never seen Satan on his throne and therefore had nothing to compare what she was currently seeing to, but she was sufficiently impressed.  The fact that there was a small boy playing with plastic cars by her knee somewhat weakened the effect.

She stopped and fell to one knee. The other demon did likewise.

Maltha, sitting on the throne, was leaning over to listen to something an imp was whispering into her ear. She let him finish, then shooed him away.

“Lord Maltha,” said a lesser demon at Maltha’s elbow.  “I really think this is not an efficient use of your time with everything that’s going on.”

“Just give me five minutes with these imps.”

“There is a duke waiting to meet you in the chamber of—”

“I know we’re busy, but just give me five minutes,” said Maltha, waving her hand.  “What kind of rulers would we be if we did not listen to our subjects?”

The smaller demon grimaced and closed the agenda they had open.

“Thank you. And thank you, Mammon,” said Maltha.  “Who have you brought now?”

“These two imps wish to change jobs,” answered Mammon. “They wish to serve you here, in the ninth layer, and have come to ask your permission to be here.”

Maltha tilted her head onto her fist.  From anyone else, a bored and unamused look would be no cause for alarm, but from her it was terrifying.

“You should let them,” said Noah.  “They look nice.”

Maltha reached down and patted Noah’s head.  “All right, Noah.  We’ll see if they’re right to work down here. Where is Toby?  Toby?”

An imp rushed off to find someone, and came back trailing a demon with fiery red hair carrying a strange-looking animal, a furry body about the size of a small dog with an eerie human head.

“Thank you, Abraxas,” said Maltha, taking the creature from the other demon.  She set it on her lap, but it meowed agitatedly and jumped down.

The red-headed demon materialized an aluminum can, popped it open, and gave it to Maltha.  “This should get him to sit still.”

“Thank you.”

The other demon stepped back, leaving the space between Yulera and Maltha clear once more.

“Now then,” said Maltha. “Do you two know what this is?”

Neither of them answered.  But Yulera knew what it was.  She had spent 6,000 years reading and re-reading a book in which it was an entry. Her bestiary.

“This is a sphinx,” said Maltha.  “His name is Toby.”

Yulera had never seen a normal cat before, and so did not find it unsettling to see one with a human head. Noah, who _had_ seen a normal cat before, did find it unsettling every time he saw it, and did not pet Toby as he ate the canned fish that had been offered to him.

Toby finished, licked his chops, and then leaped into Maltha’s lap.

The imp beside Yulera was growing very, very pale. He seemed to know what it was as well.

“He is on loan to me from a friend of mine who is very good with animals,” said Maltha.  “Because sphinxes, it turns out, have a very peculiar talent.”  Toby’s tail swished, and he let out a _mrrrow_.  “They have ways of knowing things they should not know.  And if you try to lie in front of one, they will call you out on it.”

Toby gazed up at her, pleading for more treats.

Maltha’s hand stroked his flank.  “Now,” said Maltha.  “Here, in front of my sphinx, I would like to ask you some questions.”  She lifted Toby up by his shoulders, exposing a fat belly that evidenced he had been offered bribery like this many times in the past. She manipulated his paw so it looked like he was waving at them, and then said, in a baby voice, “And you’d better tell me the twuth.”

The demon beside Yulera swallowed, overly nervous.  Yulera was also nervous, but now she was thinking too, thinking very hard, mentally flipping through her memorized collection.  The bestiary was foremost in her mind; she could see the pages with crystal clarity. The sphinx had been on page ninety-seven.  The drawing had been of one bigger than this, so maybe this one was a kitten, which would also explain why it wasn’t talking just yet.

And one of the riddles she had used to pass the time for 6,000 years had been to think of ways to trick a sphinx.

They were very particular about the way you phrased things.  They had an eye for detail.  And she had a game plan.

“You there on the left,” said Maltha.  “Step forwards.”

The imp next to Yulera stood and stopped in front of the throne.  Maltha stroked Toby’s flank.  “You wish to change stations?”

“Yes.”

“You wish to be stationed here in the ninth layer.”

“Yes.”

“What was your previous assignment?”

“I worked at the stables in the eighth layer.  Tending the hellhorses.”

Toby’s tail swished.

“And why are you unhappy with that assignment?”

“I am afraid of hellhorses.”

Maltha glanced down at the sphinx, who remained silent.

“All right,” said Maltha. “Now tell me, during the chaos following Satan’s death, and before my subsequent regency for Noah, which archdemon did you back to take Satan’s throne?”

“None.”

“Speak in full sentences, please.”

“I did not back any archdemon to take Satan’s throne.”

Toby flattened his ears and hissed.

Maltha let out an exaggerated sigh and rolled her eyes.

The imp put his hands together, trembling.  “All right, I supported Beelzebub.”

“Do you still support him?”

“No.”

“ _Full sentences_ , please.”

“I do not support Beelzebub’s claim to the throne.”

“Then whose do you support?”

“I support yours.”

Toby hissed.

The demon drew back, panic overtaking his features.  Maltha rubbed the bridge of her nose.  “This again?”

“Lord, Maltha, I—”

“You’re working with Hastur, aren’t you?”

“No!”

“Say it.”

“Duke Hastur did not send me.”

Toby hissed.

“Do you intend harm for me, Noah, or our allies?”

“I do not intend harm for anyone, Lord!”

Toby hissed.

“Get him out of my sight,” Maltha snarled.  “You can join Beelzebub in the Pit since you seem to fancy him so much.”

“W-Wait!” the demon pleaded as a pair of guards dragged him off.  “Lord Maltha, give me a chance!”

Maltha stood to shout after him as they took him away.  “How many imps are Hastur and Jezebel going to throw under the bus to try and sabotage me? Not the brightest lot, are you?”

The doors to the throne room boomed shut, leaving Yulera alone in front of the throne.

“I swear,” said Maltha, reseating herself and massaging her temples.  “Heaven is trying to wage war on us and _this_ is what they’re preoccupied with?”

“He was a bad guy, huh?” said Noah.

“Yes, dear,” said Maltha. “But he can’t hurt you now.  Don’t worry.”  She lifted her head back to Yulera, and Toby regained his seat on her lap. “Sorry for that,” said Maltha. “Unless you’re also colluding against me, in which case I’m not sorry at all, and you’ll be joining him momentarily.”

Yulera had to stop her knees from shaking, she was so terrified.

“Come,” said Maltha. “If you’re honest, you have nothing to fear.”

Yulera remained where she was.

“All right,” said Maltha. “Then I shall ask you the same questions.  You wish to be stationed here in the ninth layer?”

“Yes.”

“What was your previous assignment?”

“I have spent the past 6,000 years torturing sinners—”

Toby flattened his ears and hissed. Maltha’s eyes narrowed.

Yulera rushed to try again. “My original assignment was to torture sinners in the seventh circle—”

Toby hissed.  “Out with the truth,” Maltha growled.  “If you value your well-being.”

“All right,” said Yulera wretchedly.  “Originally I was supposed to be a succubus, but I was too scared to go up to Earth, so I ran away.  Then, they reassigned me to torture sinners, but I couldn’t stomach that either, so I ran off again, like a coward.  And I’ve spent most of the past 6,000 years hiding under rocks and doing not much of anything at all.”

Maltha glanced down at Toby. His tail swished, but he remained silent.

“That’s better,” said Maltha.  “And you wish to be assigned to the ninth layer?”

“Yes.”

“Full sentences, please.”

“I wish to be assigned to the ninth layer.”

“Why?”

And here was the part where Yulera had to lie, where she had to put her thousand-year-old idea to the test. Because the truth was she wanted to be in the ninth layer because Kabata had told her to go in there to meddle.

“I am afraid of being outside,” said Yulera.  “I am afraid of demons more powerful than me, and if I were down here I would be under your protection.  I have heard you treats imps much better than Satan did.”

It was not a lie.  It was also not the answer to her question. But the sphinx evaluated individual statements, not the conversation as a whole.

Toby was silent. Maltha put her hand on her fist. “That sounds fair,” said Maltha, and Yulera had to stop herself from letting out a breath of relief.  “Okay.  Who did you support to fill Satan’s throne after his death?”

“I did not support anyone in their bid to replace Satan,” said Yulera.  That part was true.  She had told Kabata he should let anyone else take the throne.

Maltha raised an eyebrow. “All right.  Are you conspiring against me, Yulera?”

“I am not conspiring against you, Lord Maltha.” This was also true, because she _was_ going to use Maltha for her own ends, but it was not explicitly _against_ her.  It was against someone else entirely.

“Do you intend harm for me, Noah, or our allies?”

“I intend no harm for you, Noah, or your allies.”  This was also true. She did intend harm for _someone_ , but it was someone whom she was sure Maltha would not consider an ally by any stretch of the imagination.  Ultimately she didn’t really care what happened to Maltha.

“Are you working with Hastur?”

“I do not know who Hastur is.”

Toby was silent. He was purring, actually.

“Whose claim to the throne do you support?”

Yulera hesitated.  But there was only one way to answer this honestly, even if it might anger Maltha:

“I have no great interest in who is sitting on Hell’s throne.  As long as I am safe and taken care of, I will be loyal to anyone who shows me kindness.”

Maltha stroked Toby’s flank, appearing deep in thought.

“Lord,” said Yulera nervously, adding a little curtsy.

“All right,” said Maltha. “What is your name, dear?”

“My name is Yulera, lord.”

“All right, Yulera. Where would you like to be stationed in the ninth layer?”

Yulera allowed excitement to break over her face now.  “I think I should like to work in the kitchen, lord.”

“All right,” said Maltha. “I think I’ve got a good idea of what kind of demon you are, Yulera.  You may move here into the ninth layer and join the kitchen staff. Hm…except you can’t be walking about naked like that if you’re to be handling food.  It’s not sanitary.”

“Oh,” said Yulera, reddening.  

“Mammon,” said Maltha. “Please escort Yulera to the servant’s quarters.”

“Yes, lord,” said Mammon.

Yulera felt the euphoria of finally accomplishing something truly important for the first time in her existence as Mammon led her off. Kabata was counting on her.  And what she was there to do would ultimately not be very different than stealing a book.

* * *

An eye flicked into existence beside Kabata.

It was just the sphere of an eyeball, one with a purple pupil, just hovering there staring at him.

Kabata looked at it, waiting for something to happen. When nothing did, he said, “And I suppose this must be a scrying spell?”

The eye blinked, which was very unnerving since it did not have an eyelid.

Kabata tilted the book on his lap forwards to show it to the eye.  “I’m just reading, see?  Just reading.”

The eye blinked again.

“I’m just sitting here in the seventh circle of Hell doing nothing.  See?  Not up to any mischief.  I’m not doing anything.”

The eye blinked.  “All right,” said the disembodied voice of the court spellcaster.  “Be sure to keep it that way.” And it winked out.


	5. From the Horse’s Mouth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On tumblr at http://not-a-space-alien.tumblr.com/post/162845210760/falling-hazard-part-5-from-the-horses-mouth

 

* * *

After Crowley’s last tantrum, Aziraphale lurked around Mayfair for a while, hoping the demon might have a spontaneous change of heart and let him back him without Aziraphale having to apologize for anything.  But he had no such luck.  He hadn’t really expected to be able to get away without apologizing for bringing Victoria over after how she had behaved, but he was still ticked about everything that had been happening.  Eventually he gave up and went back to Soho.

There was more goddamn mail when he came back.  He almost destroyed the letters without reading them because he was just that tired of celestial correspondences, but after giving himself a moment to calm down, thought better of it and sifted through them.

None from Heaven this time around, at least.  They were all from his demons, second and third letters asking him for advice or urging him to be careful or simply panicking that they didn’t know where to go or what to do to try and avert the apocalypse this time around.

As far as Aziraphale knew, Uriel’s threat—promise—to send out orders about how to begin the war had never been carried out.  The clash between Raphael and Gabriel over Michael was probably what was delaying it. The field agents might expect to be recalled as soon as that was settled, to begin whatever horrid, shoestring plan he was sure they were cooking up to try and get around the requirement for an Antichrist.

He had no idea what to tell his demons.  He had no idea what he should be doing, who to trust, who to look to for guidance—and neither did they.  Their panic was evident from their writing.

And more of them were reporting their angelic counterparts had gone missing, without explanation.

_Aziraphale,_

_I do not believe you have ever met her, but my angelic partner is named Devi. She disappeared from our home yesterday without telling me where she was going, and I have been unable to reach her. There were no signs of a struggle, but she is not answering her phone.  Please let me know if you see her, all right?_

_-Lirach_

The incidents seemed to all follow that basic pattern.   _She’s not answering her phone.  He didn’t tell me where he went.  I haven’t seen them since Thursday morning, and we always have movie nights Friday evening, why would they have missed it?_

Adramelech was the worst. Instead of contacting him with a letter through the ethereal mail, he had called his mobile phone and used up all Aziraphale’s prepaid minutes crying into the receiver.

“She was right there,” the demon sobbed, and after a solid two minutes of blubbering continued, “I’m so worried about her.”

“Adramelech, do you have any idea where she could have gone?”

“Hell has kidnapped her, I’m sure of it,” Adramelech said after another two minutes of bawling.

“What makes you say that?”  

Adramelech blew his nose loudly, and Aziraphale heard the tinkling of the tonnes of jewelry he always wore.  “I found black feathers.”

“Black feathers.”

“They were Maltha’s feathers, I know it.”

“How do you know they were Maltha’s?”

“Who else’s could they be?”

“Well, conceivably, any demon’s that has black wings, which is quite a few of them.  Or any angel with black wings.  Black is a fairly common wing colour, Adramelech.”

“Why would she do it?” wept Adramelech.  “My precious angel.  I thought Maltha was our friend.  Why would she take her?”

“I have to hang up, Adramelech,” said Aziraphale.  “I’m about to run out of minutes.  Write me if you find out anything else.”

“What should I do?”

“I’m hanging up now.”

“Aziraphale?”

“Goodbye.”

He snapped his phone shut and took a deep breath, massaging his temples.

He really thought his last exchange with Maltha had indicated she wanted not to hear from him anymore, but she couldn’t expect him to just sit there stewing and not say anything about it.

He took out another piece of parchment and tried again.

_To the Archdemon Maltha,_

_Some of my demon ~~friends~~ followers cannot find their angelic counterparts, and it is troubling them very much.  Some of them are convinced Hell has kidnapped them.  And Heaven seems to believe Hell is kidnapping them as a prelude to the war.  Please assure me you are not connected to the disappearances of the angels currently going missing._

_-The Principality Aziraphale_

He sent the letter out and paced until Maltha’s reply came in.

_To the angel Aziraphale,_

_The angels are being taken care of and moving about of their own free will, and I will ask you one more time to leave this to me._

_Do not come into Hell.  I cannot guarantee your safety._

_-The Archdemon Maltha._

“What the fuck!” Aziraphale screamed, finally reaching the breaking point.  “What the fuck!  What the fuck!  Why doesn’t somebody just make some sense for once!  What is going _on?_ ”

Seething, Aziraphale wrote another letter.

_I’m positive Kabata must be plotting something.  He must have something to do with all the chaos that’s happening now.  He is a danger as long as he is alive._

He sent it out, and when the reply came:

 _I have never met a demon who is not plotting something, but he is not plotting anything against_ us, _which means it is not worth our time.  I am extremely busy with other matters. Kabata is under control.  Please stop pestering me._

“What other matters?” Aziraphale raged.  “What could be more important than this?”

Aziraphale wrote another message that said, _Please execute Kabata._ Instead of folding the letter, he balled it up and tossed it into the outbox like a baseball, hoping that it might fly out and smack Maltha in the head.

After a few seconds, a reply came whizzing out, likewise balled up, and hit Aziraphale’s forehead.  He un-scrunched it to see that it read, _No._

He chucked the letter into the garbage can, then sat down at his desk, putting his head in his hands. He couldn’t remember ever being this stressed out in his entire life.

He sifted through his letters, comparing them to his mental list of all the demons that had shown up in his shop.  It looked like he had gotten one from every demon.  Every demon except…

Abraxas.

Aziraphale took out his phone to call her before he remembered that Adramelech had used all his air time.  And Aziraphale hadn’t had a landline in his shop since he got the mobile, since it had seemed wasteful.  He cursed himself, taking note that he had four minutes left.  That was enough for a short call.

He scrolled through his address book to find her and hit send.

“Please pick up,” said Aziraphale.  “Come on, just one person, please be straight with me.”

“Hello?”

“Abraxas!” Aziraphale said, punching the air.  “Hello!”

“Aziraphale!” said Abraxas. “Hi!  Can you hear me okay?  I don’t get good reception here.”

“Yes, I can hear you. Where are you?”

“I’m in Hell.  I’m helping Maltha with something.  Oh, I—Aziraphale, I didn’t give the spell to anyone, if that’s what you’re calling about.”

Aziraphale paused, waiting for an elaboration, but none came.

“The spell?”

“The—”  There was a sound of someone moving around on the other end of the line.  “The important spell that you told me not to tell anyone.”

“The—oh, do you mean the way for demons to get into Heaven that Agares had discovered?” Aziraphale tried.

“Yes!” said Abraxas. “Sorry, that’s what I meant.”

“So it’s a spell, is it?”

“Yes.  But I haven’t given it to anyone.  Just like you told me.  Good ol’ Abraxas.  You can always count on her.”

“Oh.  Good.  Good, okay, great,” said Aziraphale, flicking his phone away to see how much time he had left.  “But that’s not what I’m calling about.”

“Oh.”

“Abraxas, all my other demons have written me letters and lots of them are complaining about not being able to find their angelic counterparts.  Has yours gone missing?  Has there been any trouble?”

“Trouble?” said Abraxas vaguely.  “Uh, no not really...”

“You’re in communication with your angel?  You know where they are?”

“Yeah,” said Abraxas. “You want to talk to her?”

“Sure,” said Aziraphale. “But it has to be fast.  I’m almost out of minutes.”

The phone shifted over and a new voice came on.  “Aziraphale, hi!  I’m Paula.”

“Paula?  Oh, we met once in, what was it…”

“Culloden, I think,” said Paula.  “Sometime in the 1800s.”

“Right, yes.  Good to talk to you again,” said Aziraphale.

“You too.  So was there…anything you wanted to ask me, or…?”

“Uh…” said Aziraphale, suddenly unsure of what he should prioritize.  “Um, some…really crazy stuff happening, isn’t there?”

“For sure.  Keep yourself safe, Aziraphale.  Maltha is worried about you and Crowley.”

“She is?” said Aziraphale. “That’s….hold on a moment, Abraxas said she was in Hell, didn’t she?”

Paula did not respond.

“Are you in Hell with her?”

Silence.

“I knew Maltha was making some changes but I didn’t know that _angels—_ were—what are you doing down there?”

The line clicked off.

Aziraphale moved his phone away from his face, indignant astonishment welling up from inside him.

He only had two minutes of airtime left, because it rounded down, which he had always thought was unfair.

He went outside and found a payphone, which took a good deal of searching.  He plunked a few coins in, and called Abraxas again.  It went to voicemail.

“Abraxas,” he said into the receiver as venomously as he had it in him to speak, “Listen to me right now. I am extremely upset with you and Paula. I need to know what’s going on and I do not appreciate your being evasive and cryptic.  Call me back and tell me what is going on.  I know you are hiding something.  Call me back.”

He hung up.  Then, for good measure, he called again, got the voicemail again, and added angrily, “I’m serious, Abraxas.  Call me.  Call me right now.  Well, I’m almost out of minutes, so maybe write me a letter instead.  I’m serious.  Write me a letter.  Tell me what’s going on.”

He never got a response.

That was how the day was going to be, it seemed.  He could not make any progress talking to anyone.  There was nothing to do but wait again.  He hated it much more now that he was doing it alone.  He tried to read, but his mind kept wandering and he ended up spending hours on the same page.  So he just waited.  And waited. For anything, for Crowley to come back to him, for anyone to give him some information, for some new attack to happen, anything.

To his irritation, the first thing to break his waiting was the bell on the front door of the shop ringing.

“We’re closed!” he yelled, feeling like he himself might break the rules about harming humans if he had to face a customer.  “No books for sale today!  Get out!”

“Aziraphale!” howled a voice.  “It’s me, reporting for duty!”

Aziraphale peeked out of the back room to see a demon in the doorway of the shop, one with milky-white skin, a prickly red mustache, and a smile fully extended to show unsettlingly large canine teeth.  Aziraphale almost didn’t recognize him because he had only seen him in bulky battle armor, but now he was in a pullover sweater and a fuzzy scarf, with a beanie that just barely failed to conceal his nubby horns.

Aziraphale sighed wearily. “Come in, Botis.”

Botis snapped to attention, threw him a salute.  He took a step in, then saluted again.  He saluted yet a third time when he reached Aziraphale.  “My liege, I have made the arduous journey here to your stronghold to bring you an important item!”

Aziraphale suddenly found himself wishing he had used the sigils that would keep out all demons, full stop, instead of the one that would allow some in.  “Okay, what’s that, Botis?”

The door to the shop slammed open again, and an angelic figure in snow pants and a cardigan posed heroically against the door.  Her skin was almost as dark as Botis’s was light, and her hair fell in elegant corkscrews.

Botis leapt back and flourished, motioning to the angel as though he were a presenter on a gameshow. And in a very dramatic voice: “Presenting!  Principality of Northeastern Africa, the angel Kyleth!”

“Er…” said Aziraphale. “Okay?”

Botis hesitated, then motioned to her again, as though Aziraphale had not responded as enthusiastically as expected.

Kyleth dropped her pose and came in, holding her hand out for a handshake. “Hi, nice to meet you.”

“Er, hello,” he said, shaking her hand.  “How do you know Botis?”

Botis looked a bit hurt. “She’s my angelic partner, Aziraphale!”

“Northern Africa?” said Aziraphale.  “I thought you were stationed somewhere cold.”

“Why did you think that?” said Botis.

Aziraphale did not want to answer, because the reason was he thought Botis looked like a walrus, and Botis might be offended if that was not actually what animal he was. He had also done that thing humans sometimes do when one person is on a different scale of attractiveness than the other, and assumed Kyleth was too beautiful to be with Botis, who was unfortunately rather ugly.

When Aziraphale did not answer, Kyleth smiled faintly, as though she could follow his train of thought. “Well, now you know.  No worries.  Aren’t you going to offer us a cup of tea?  I thought that’s what the Brits were all about.”

Aziraphale shook himself. “Right, of course.  I’ll put the kettle on.”

The pair took their seats in his kitchenette as he boiled the kettle.  The tea set only had four cups after Victoria’s visit, but it was enough.

“So what is it you wanted to bring me?” said Aziraphale as he poured them their tea.

“Information!” said Botis. “After reading your reply to my letter, it seemed obvious you were desperate for some clarification.”

“Oh?” said Aziraphale, taking his seat.  He was tired, and he could not imagine what information Botis or his corresponding angel could have.  The tea did not seem to be helping so far.

“Aziraphale!” said Kyleth. “I have some crucial knowledge that can only be delivered to trusted parties!  Gabriel made me swear to silence, but Botis begged me to come and tell you.”

Aziraphale was suddenly filled with electric interest.  “Go on.”

“I know who destroyed the Temple.”

Aziraphale sloshed tea over the rim of his cup.  “ _What?_  Who?”

“A warrior angel named Kris.”

“What?” said Aziraphale. “An angel?  It was an angel?”

“Yes.”

Aziraphale grabbed her collar, pulling her closer.  “Kyleth, _what color are his wings?_ ”

“His wings?  I—I don’t—They’re gold, I think.”

The room began to swim in his vision, and he toppled from his chair.  Alarmed voices around him faded briefly.

He came to a few seconds later, Kyleth and Botis leaning over him with concern, fanning him. “Good Heavens, are you all right?”

“Ahh, yes, yes I’m all right,” said Aziraphale, levering himself up with his chair.  “Goodness—just a bit of a shock.  I’m sorry.”

He gulped down what remained of his tea and poured himself another cup.  “Go on.  How do you know it was him?”

Kyleth took a deep breath. “I could get in real trouble if anyone finds out I told you this.  Do I have your word this won’t leave this room?”

“I need to tell Crowley.”

She bit her lip.  “Okay.  Fine.   _Only_ him.  And _he_ can’t tell anyone.”

“Agreed.  I promise.  And Crowley knows how to be discreet.”

She arranged herself in her chair.  “Gabriel approached me with the mission to destroy the Temple first.”

“ _What?_ ”

“I refused.  Gabriel got angry at me, of course.  But eventually he just made me swear not to tell anyone what the mission had been and left it at that.  I got the impression I was not the first angel to turn down the mission.  He was incredibly frustrated.”

“Okay, but how do you know it was this angel—this Kris?”

“Okay,” said Kyleth, sliding her teacup to the side and leaning in, “the attack on the Temple, it had to be carried out with an aural weapon, right?”

If a shrine were damaged by natural means, it wouldn’t damage the spiritual energy of the place. That was what had tipped Aziraphale and Crowley off that the attack had been bigger than a human actor:  there was supernatural damage to it.

“I suppose so,” said Aziraphale.  “No human weapon could do damage like that to the Temple.  I suppose I had assumed it was Hellfire of some sort.”

Kyleth shook her head. “No way.  It wouldn’t make an explosion like that. Here’s the thing.” She tapped her finger on the table. “A few days before the destruction of the Temple, I heard Kris bragging about how he had figured out how to use his aural weapon as a bomb.”

“As a bomb?”

“Yes. I’ve never seen anyone use it like that before.  His creativity is unprecedented for a warrior.  And knowing his personality—He would do it.  God, Aziraphale, he would do it.  It’s only circumstantial evidence, but the pieces all fit.  Gabriel ordered the hit, and Kris was probably the one who carried it out.”

Aziraphale took a deep breath.  “Okay. Thank you for telling me.”

“I told you, didn’t I?” said Botis.  “That it was important.”

“You sure did,” said Aziraphale.  He just felt more unsettled than ever. Assuming Kyleth was telling the truth…

“But why would Gabriel go as far as to destroy the Temple?  That would be a disaster for Heaven.  It _is_ a disaster for Heaven.”

“I don’t know,” said Kyleth. “Your guess is as good as mine.”

Aziraphale drummed his fingers on the table.  “Right…” He collected their cups.  “Well, thank you for visiting, but I think it’s time for you to go now.”

“What?” said Botis. “Sir, we just got here!”

“I need some time to think.”

“Please allow me to stay and guard you!  It would only take a moment to put my armor on!”

“Botis, _please_ clear out.  Thank you.”

Kyleth gave him a dirty look and took Botis’s hand.  The demon seemed on the verge of tears.  As they passed the shop front outside, Aziraphale heard his muffled voice speculating that Aziraphale would have let him stay if he had shown up in his armor in the first place, and Kyleth generously reassuring him that he had done everything right.

Aziraphale made sure the shop sign was turned to CLOSED and locked the door.  His mind was racing.

He didn’t know who to trust anymore.  Everyone’s motivation was suspect.

Foremost was Kyleth. He didn’t know her very well, but if what she said was true that meant Heaven was more corrupt than Aziraphale could have ever imagined.  But if that were true, that meant he couldn’t trust any angel to be telling him the truth, including Kyleth herself.  Botis never seemed to have any motivation to do anything but please him, but Botis had been on the same level of trust as Maltha and Raphael, and they were all under scrutiny now.

Secondly was Gabriel. He had no solid evidence that Gabriel was doing anything unethical except for what Kyleth had said, and he had to acknowledge that his own personal feelings on the matter would cloud his judgement with the way the archangel had mistreated Crowley.  But Kyleth seemed to have less motivation to lie than Gabriel.  It seemed much more likely that the archangels were the ones trying to push their agendas.

Which meant that if Gabriel had really ordered the hit on the Temple, Crowley had been right.  But it didn’t make sense for Gabriel to sacrifice the Temple and spark the war for the sake of getting a leg up on Raphael in their dispute about Michael.  The war was the _end goal_ , not a pawn to be used in a personal dispute.  Gabriel wouldn’t ignite it prematurely to try and force Raphael’s hand away from casting him out of Heaven because Michael was _for the war,_ not the other way around.

Right?

Would there be some _other_ motivation to try and spark the war? Heaven would need to be _really_ desperate if they needed to blame Hell for something as an excuse to attack first.

Of course with Maltha, the sworn pacifist, sitting on the throne of Hell, Heaven might _need_ an excuse to attack first if the war were to start at all.  But for someone who was such a stickler for doing things the right way, Gabriel would have to be completely out of other options to resort to framing Hell for the destruction of the Temple, and Aziraphale couldn’t imagine why he would need to start the war _now_ so badly, against an archdemon who didn’t want to fight, on a planet with no antichrist to kick things off.  Gabriel didn’t seem to have any reason to be personally invested in the war.

What could make Gabriel so desperate?  Nothing Aziraphale could think of.   Unless…

Unless it was God.  Or something to do with him.  That was running up against the ineffable again. There was no point in double guessing that.  He had his solitaire game and He wouldn’t share it with anyone else.

This also introduced an important change into the equation:  It meant Maltha, or _any_ demon for that matter, had _not_ been responsible for the attack on the Temple.

So what was going on in Hell?  With Beth? What were Kabata and the renegades doing?  

More importantly, what was going on in _Heaven?_  Uriel had been the one to send out the announcement about the war after the attack on the Temple.

Had she known?  Had the Metatron known?  

He sat down at his desk, whipped out a piece of parchment, and began to write.

_To the archangel Gabriel,_

His pen hovered above the blank page.  What was there to say?

A cold feeling began to creep over him.  Because if he sent a letter to Gabriel, _any_ letter that acknowledged he knew anything about this…

He might just end up as the latest victim in the line of angels that had gone mysteriously missing.

He went out of the bookshop and found the payphone again, plunking coins in it and punching in Crowley’s number.

He got the voicemail. No big surprise there.

“Crowley, listen.  I know we’re fighting right now, but you need to be careful.  I’m sure I don’t have to tell you this, but stay away from Gabriel.  Don’t be alone with him.  Don’t be alone with him or any of the angels loyal to him.  I know running just makes it worse, but _run_ if you have to, Crowley, or you might not come back.”

Aziraphale put his head against the phone stand, breathing heavily.

“I’m sorry.  I don’t have any reason to think anyone is coming after you.  I didn’t mean to panic you.  Just don’t trust Gabriel, don’t trust Uriel or Metatron.  Don’t trust anyone in Heaven— _If_ you can get ahold of Raphael, _maybe_ trust him, if he’ll tell you what the hell he’s doing.  Who knows where Michael is, but I wouldn’t be alone with him, either.  And Crowley—I know you don’t want to hear this, but I wouldn’t trust Maltha, too. Something is going on, something big. When you’re ready to talk again, give me a call.”

He hung up the payphone, then went back to the shop.  He did not like this one bit.  But there was nothing else to do but wait, it seemed.


	6. Answered Prayers and Black Feathers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On tumblr at http://not-a-space-alien.tumblr.com/post/162960223630/falling-hazard-part-6-answered-prayers-and

 

 

* * *

 

“Is he home?”

Oryss shifted her grip on the slow cooker.  “No, Olivia, I’m sure he simply put up a thousand foot thick wall around his flat and then went out to grab a cuppa.”

Olivia sniffed at her. “Whatever.  Hurry up.  My hands are burning from holding this.”

Oryss knocked on the door as loudly as she could.  She kept it up and her fist fell on empty air as the door opened.

“Oryss,” said Crowley, startled.  “And…” His gaze shifted suspiciously to Olivia.

“Olivia,” she said, “Former Guardian of the Western Gate and current Principality of Northern Africa and bearer of the hot apple pie.  Please may I come in and set this down on an oven mitt.”

Crowley swung the door open. Olivia went straight to the kitchen and dumped the pie on the worktop, running her hands under the cold faucet.

“She’s just being a bit overdramatic,” said Oryss, following her in.  She set the crockpot on the worktop and plugged it in.  “I wasn’t sure what kind of cookware you had in stock, so I brought some of my own just in case.”

“Okay but—Oryss, What are you doing here?”

“When Aziraphale responded to my letter he told me you had locked yourself in your flat,” said Oryss.  “I figured you guys had had a fight and you would need some comfort food.”

“Oh,” said Crowley. He saw that the crockpot was filled with mashed potatoes.  “That’s…that’s great.  Thank you. This isn’t necessary, though.  You needn’t trouble yourself.”

“It’s no trouble for me,” huffed Olivia.  “I get to sit on my arse and eat Oryss’s cooking in _the_ most well-fortified fortress I’ve ever had the pleasure of laying eyes on.  That’s some seriously impressive spellwork on the walls, Mr Crowley.  How did you do it?”

“Er,” said Crowley, “I was angry…”

“ _Angry_ ,” said Olivia, clapping him on the back.

“Olivia, was it?” said Crowley.  “You aren’t…you know, angry at me?  I would have thought every angel in the garrison was eager to pound me into the ground because of the situation with Michael.”

“Ha,” said Olivia with a dismissive wave.  “One of Heaven’s most important angels is going to be cast out because of some low-level demon.  Right. I don’t buy it for a second.”

“Really?”

“What a load of nonsense. I don’t believe that line about Hell destroying the Temple either.  I wouldn’t trust anything anyone in Heaven says after what happened to Kyleth.”

“What happened to Kyleth?”

“I’ll tell you about it after I go get the rest from the car.”

“There’s more food.”

“Of course,” said Olivia. “Oryss never goes over to anyone else’s place without a batch of chocolate chip biscuits.  You’ll be so fat you’ll have to roll instead of slither once she’s done with you.”

“Oh.”

Olivia’s footsteps sounded down the stairs.  Oryss came over and held her hands out.  Crowley took them.

“How are you doing?” said Oryss.

“About as good as I can be,” said Crowley.  “You?”

“Scared.  I’m scared as Hell.”

“Me too.”

“Hug?”

“Yeah.”

They hugged.

Olivia reappeared in the doorway, balancing Tupperware containers in her arms.  “All right, so, Kyleth is a principality neighbour of mine,” she said, dumping them onto the counter. “And a few days before the destruction of the Temple, she called me up crying her eyes out scared for her life.”

“What?” said Crowley.

Olivia plopped herself on the couch, a biscuit in one hand, crossing her legs.  “She told me she had been given some mission by Heaven that she simply _could not_ carry out, but she was scared that if she refused the orders one of the archangels would take her to task.  Three guesses as to what the mission was.”

Crowley took a seat next to her, alarmed.  “Heaven ordered her to destroy the Temple?”

“I have _never_ seen Kyleth that upset,” said Olivia.  “She normally has an extremely cool head.”

“I think I know which archangel might have upset her so much,” said Crowley grimly.  “Gabriel.”

“It _would_ be him,” said Olivia savagely.  “I hate him so much.”

“Olivia!” said Oryss.

“I’m serious!  I don’t say this lightly, but if there was a second rebellion against Heaven, frankly I’d probably join it, even if it meant I became a demon.  This bullshite is going too far.”

“You don’t mean that,” said Oryss.  “Olivia.”

Olivia scowled.  “But I don’t have any definitive proof of anything, but if I _did_ …Gabriel would be the one falling, I just know it.”

“Crowley, what’s happening with Michael?” said Oryss.  “Do you know?”

Crowley shook his head. “I have no idea.”

“Figured that part would’ve been a lie, too,” said Olivia, starting into the pizza they had brought. “Heaven can never get enough of throwing little guys under the bus.”

She handed Crowley and Oryss some of the canned soda from the counter.  Crowley took it and cracked it open.  “If only Aziraphale had the same attitude as you,” he said morosely.

“What, Aziraphale _didn’t believe you?_ ” said Olivia.

Crowley nodded.

“No wonder you had a fight.”

Crowley gave a sigh. “I think I might be to blame, too.”

A few minutes later, Crowley was halfway through an entire tray of biscuits on his own, dipping them into some hot chocolate.

“I just think—it’s different for angels, isn’t it?” he said.  “No offence, Olivia.  But angels aren’t supposed to disobey or question their superiors, _ever._  Of course it’d be hard for him.  I don’t give him enough credit.  After that mistake we…he made with Camael that put me back on Heaven’s roster, he’s been very careful to correct his mistakes and be more thoughtful of me, and I haven’t really done the same for him or acknowledged his efforts.  He must be incredibly conflicted right now, and I blew up on him for not throwing himself in front of an archangel hard enough for me.  What he was saying made sense, and he was being rational and respectful.  And I just wasn’t.”

“It’s not irrational to expect the respect you deserve, Crowley,” said Oryss.  “At this stage in your relationship, if he’s still harboring doubts about your loyalties, it sounds like there must have been a bad lack of communication going on between you two.”

“I don’t think it’s communication,” said Crowley.  “He just….doesn’t want to question Heaven.  He _wants_ to _not_ question the status quo, because it makes him uncomfortable. And when he _has_ to, he flounders, and then acts on reflex without thinking, because he doesn’t _want_ to think about it.  Because he knows, deep down, that there aren’t any good answers for him to find.”

“It _is_ difficult,” said Olivia.  “Speaking as another angel.  It’s hard.  But we’ve all done it, Crowley.  We’ve all had to, because Heaven isn’t nearly as perfect as it likes to pretend it is.”

Crowley stared into his cocoa.  “Right…”

“I think the two of you need to have a nice long chat borne of mutual understanding, hm?” said Oryss.

“…Yeah.”  Crowley dipped a biscuit in his cocoa.  “…Maybe I can talk to him later.  Would you like to watch a movie?”

* * *

When humans are desperate, many of them pray.  The same is true for certain angels.  And Aziraphale was quite desperate indeed.

It wasn’t strictly necessary, but Aziraphale laid out a chalk circle and lit some incense, just as he would do if he were to try and contact another angel in Heaven.  For good measure.  Definitely not because he was nervous as hell to do this and thought he might need all the help he could get.

He hadn’t prayed since the feast in his bookshop and that alarming reply.  Angels don’t usually pray at all, but Aziraphale hadn’t specifically because he had been too scared to.  But now, he had found the courage, because everything that had been happening was scaring him more.

He knelt in the circle. “Lord God,” he began.  “I beg your infinite mercy and forgiveness.  I have no idea what I should be doing.  I don’t know right from wrong anymore.  I…need some guidance.”

A beam of light blinked into existence in the circle, dust motes floating ominously in the harsh white light.  Aziraphale jumped a little.

After a moment’s pause, he said, “H-hello?”

“Who is this?” said a Voice, and Aziraphale jumped a lot.

“This is Aziraphale,” he said, scrambling.  “Oh dear—oh my—Are you—Is this the Metatron?  Am I speaking with the Metatron?”

“Mmm, yes, you are, unfortunately,” said the Voice, dripping with disdain. 

“Oh,” said Aziraphale. “My apologies, I was trying to pray directly to God.”

“You were…trying to bypass me?” reverberated the Metatron.  “Why?”

Aziraphale sputtered. “Uh, well it’s just that—that is to say, I wasn’t trying to— _specifically_ you, I just—”

“All right, Aziraphale,” said Voice.  “What do you need?  Why have you called?”

Aziraphale wrung his hands. “I…Uh…”

“What is it?” said the Metatron testily.  “Out with it.”

“I don’t want to talk to you!” Aziraphale burst out.  “I want to talk to God!”

The dust motes floated in the silent, pulsing light.

“He is... unavailable,” dragged the Voice.  “We, the Metatron, can assist you with whatever you may need.”

Aziraphale was glad the Metatron could not see his face, because he was growing quite red. “Unavailable?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“Then it is a good thing that no one cares what you believe, Aziraphale.  Either state some matter with which we may help you, or sign off.”

Frowning, Aziraphale stomped on the chalk circle, and the light winked out.  Then, he lit different incense, re-drew the circle, and tried again.

“Lord God…I need your guidance…your ineffable wisdom.”

The light _whooshed_ back into the circle.  “Aziraphale!” said the irritated Voice.  “Stop this.”

“I want to talk to God.”

“I really think that you do not.”

Aziraphale, gaining courage with his frustration, shouted, “Yes I do!  I don’t know what you’re hiding, you….you….you!  But I’ve had quite enough of it.   _Let me talk to Him._ ”

The dust motes danced in the light.

“You never once thank anyone who ever tries to help you, Aziraphale,” chimed the Voice, slowly, darkly. “Very well.  If you so badly want to speak with Him, I will stop standing in your way.”

The light winked out. And Aziraphale, with growing alarm, had a split second to consider the possibility that he had made a mistake before:

It was a ghost of a thought, something muddled and delivered embedded in a cacophony of absolute shrieking static, angry, pained, jumbled, ramming into his head like a train.

Startled, Aziraphale fell backwards.  “L-Lord?”

Another noise came, warped beyond recognition, spiking into his head, exploding into his skull, overwhelming.

“No!” said Aziraphale. “It’s not my fault!”

There was suddenly silence. Aziraphale looked down and realised he had smeared the chalk circle with his hand.

Aziraphale scrabbled to his feet and hugged the wall, looking at the chalk circle, breathing heavily.

He slid down to the floor. “No.  No, that can’t be right.  What was that?  What _was_ that?  Was that Him?”

He wanted to call the Metatron and ask them, but he was too terrified now, too scared to even go near that circle lest whatever unbearable phenomenon had just occurred start up again.

The bell on the door jingled, and Aziraphale closed his eyes at the realization that he had not locked the door.

“G-Go away!” he yelled, still shaking.

“Aziraphale, it is imperative that we speak to you.”

It was not a voice he recognised.  He ran his fingers through his hair.  “Just give me a moment.”

He made a conscious effort to regulate his breathing and still his hands.

There was only one response any rational being could fall back on to save themselves from the implications of what Aziraphale had just heard, and it was something Aziraphale was already very good at: denial.

“This is just a bad dream,” he said to himself.  “If God were angry with you, you would be dead by now. Plain and simple. Everything is fine.  There must be something you are not understanding. Time to leave it behind.  Forget about it.  Get up.  Get up. Go see who is outside.   _Get up._ ”

He managed to do it. He came out behind the counter, to see a group of about half a dozen angels loitering in the main shop. Aziraphale suddenly wished he had angel-proofed the building as well as demon-proofed it.

“And just who are you all supposed to be?”

His heart froze as he saw the angel at the head of the group had gold wings.  The angel in question gave Aziraphale a too-wide smile and extended his hand out for a shake.  “Good evening, Aziraphale.  My name is Kris, and—”

“Get out,” Aziraphale said.

Kris withdrew his hand, the smile wiped off his face instantly.  “We just want to speak with you, Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale crossed his arms sourly.  “Go on, then.”

“We need to talk to Crowley.”

 _Hell no_ , Aziraphale almost said.  Instead, he said,  “Whatever about?” He already knew the answer, but he wanted to buy time to think.

“About his case that Michael should be cast out of Heaven,” said Kris with surprising calmness.  “It is unreasonable and unnecessary.  It is impossible to press that Michael should fall for murdering Crowley when Crowley is _alive._  We want to try and convince him to drop the case.”

“I’m afraid there’s a bit of a misunderstanding.  Crowley doesn’t think Michael should fall either.  You’ll need to talk to Raphael, not him.”

“We have already tried to talk to Raphael.  This is what remains.”

“This isn’t your job. You should leave this mess to the archangels.”

Kris crossed his arms. “So suddenly it’s very important that everyone is perfectly obedient to Heaven and does their job, and nothing more, is that it?”

Aziraphale glowered silently.

“Raphael’s obstinacy is standing in the way of the Great Plan.  As soon as we can resolve Michael’s fate, we can get on with the war and our Heavenly Father’s glorious victory.  Don’t you want that?  Don’t you care about our Father’s will?”

And for the first time in his life, Aziraphale realised that he honestly did not, not even a little bit.  He really did not care about God’s will, the Great Plan, Ineffability, whatever you want to call it.  He had never cared, and he had just been too scared to admit it.

The Metatron’s _No one cares what you believe_ was suddenly liberating rather than frightening, because it meant he could believe whatever he wanted.

But he couldn’t very well tell this group of angels that.  And the seconds dragged on without him answering, so Kris brushed past that and put his hands on the counter.  “We were hoping you could tell us where Crowley is currently.”

“I’m afraid I don’t think that would be a very good idea.  And besides, he’s locked himself in, and I don’t think he’ll permit entry to someone like this lot.”

Kris’s face garnered a slight smile.  “Aziraphale, we do not need his _permission_ for entry.”

Aziraphale thought of Crowley’s supernatural wall and what it would take to get through it.   _A bomb._

Aziraphale whirled around, booked it to his desk, ripped down the general address the Metatron had sent, and came back downstairs, waving it in Kris’s face.  “As you might recall the Voice of God itself has said no one should harm Crowley, _Kris,_ so I’ll kindly ask you to leave him alone and bugger off back to wherever it is you warriors hang about when you aren’t bullying angels smaller than you.”

“Our loyalty lies with _Gabriel_ ,” said one of the warriors behind Kris.

“The Metatron does not need to know the details of what we do on Earth,” said Kris with a wicked grin. “That’s Gabriel’s job.”

Aziraphale held the letter up as though it were a magical ward that had just failed him, processing what they had said.  Then, he threw it at them, and it fluttered down onto the floor.  “You lot think I won’t tell Metatron if you do something to Crowley?”   _Or to me_ , he suddenly realised.

Kris put his hands up. “All right, Aziraphale I think you may have misunderstood us.  We are not going to _harm_ Crowley.  That’s why we have this.”

Kris unfurled a piece of parchment, showing Aziraphale a sigil that was awful and awfully familiar. “This binding sigil from the Key of Solomon causes no harm but keeps any demon from—”

“Get out!” Aziraphale exploded.  “I won’t let you anywhere near him with that thing!  Get out, all of you, now!”

“Aziraphale, I insist you tell us where we can find him—”

“I’d die before I tell any of you one thing about him!  Get out of my shop now!”

“Aziraphale—”

“I have a chalk circle already drawn in the back room and I can get ahold of Metatron in a few seconds. I’ll tell them what you just said about them.”

The six warriors looked disgusted with him.  Aziraphale stepped forwards and ripped the paper with the Solomonic seal out of Kris’s hand.  “Now get out!”

“Aziraphale—”

“ _Now!_ ”

Aziraphale stood there covered in sweat staring at the six warriors challengingly.  A tendril of his aura brushed against his sword handle in aether, ready to pull it out, because the fact that he had no hope of fighting off six warriors would certainly not stop him from trying if the need arose.

Kris’s face twitched. “You’re awfully mouthy, you know that?”

“I’ve been told.”

“Fine,” said Kris, turning towards the exit.  “But you should remember, Aziraphale, that soon judgement will fall on the unrighteous. Maybe you should think about whether your lot is with us, or with _them_.”

“Oh, boo,” said Aziraphale. “I’m _so_ frightened.”

They each gave Aziraphale a disgruntled look and a muttered insult as they made their way out of the shop. But they did leave.

Aziraphale slammed the door behind them, then put his back to the wall, breathing heavily, crushing the paper with the Solomonic seal in his hand.

“You bastards,” he said. “You absolute bastards.”

He slid down the closed door, sitting in a little ball on the floor.  After a few moments when his head began to clear, he said, “What am I doing? What the _hell_ am I doing?”

He went upstairs and threw himself off the balcony, snapping his wings open and heading towards Mayfair.  

* * *

Crowley had wanted to watch a Bond film as he usually suggested when with company.  But he could tell Olivia and Oryss were only pretending to be enthusiastic about them for his sake, so they ended up watching _Moonlight_ instead, which turned out to be a decent film, so that was all right.

They were about two hours into their subsequent Netflix binge when there was a knock on the door.

Crowley paused the TV and stood, straightening his shirt.  “That must be Aziraphale.  I’m ready to talk to him.”

“Now remember,” said Olivia. “Make up with him, but don’t let him off the hook.”

“Right,” he said, walking towards the door.

“Mr Crowley, are you home?” said a voice from the door, decidedly _not_ Aziraphale’s.

Crowley froze halfway across the room.

“Crowley, my name is Vincent,” said the voice through the door.  “I’m one of Michael’s warriors, and I was hoping to talk to you for a minute…”

“Shit,” said Crowley, backpedaling away from the door.  “Shit shit shit shit…”

“You’re going to scare him,” said a second voice from behind the door.  “He’ll never open up if you talk like that.”

“Bloody Hell, like what?” said the first voice.  “I’m being perfectly polite.”

“He thinks you’re going to kill him.”

“I’m a _warrior_ , every demon thinks I’m going to kill them. S’not my fault.”

Olivia pushed Crowley behind her.  “I’ll handle this.”

“We really do just want to talk with you,” said the first voice.  “Are you home?”

“Get out of sight of the door,” said Olivia.

“You’re not going to open it, are you?” said Oryss with horror.

“I’ll get them to leave,” said Olivia.  She turned back and flashed the two demons a winning smile.  “Trust me, I’ll handle this.”

Crowley and Oryss dove behind the couch as Olivia’s hand reached the doorknob.  “I’m coming out.  Stand away from the door.”

The door open and shut, the barriers around the flat falling for a second and then zooming back up. The two demons maintained their positions for a moment, then peeked out over the couch when nothing happened.

Multiple voices were muffled but audible from behind the door, Olivia’s among them.

“Oh somebody,” said Crowley. “This is it.  I’m going to die, and it’s going to be for something I didn’t even do.”

“Hey,” said Oryss, grabbing Crowley’s hand.  “She’s got this.”

“Right, you’re right.”

“Olivia is smart.  If she says she’ll get them to go away, then she’ll get them to go away.”

They stood like that for a few minutes, listening to the voices from beyond the door, too diffuse to make out individual words.  Then:

“Oryss, Crowley, don’t panic, they’re going to leave.”

Oryss’s face broke out into a big smile.  “Didn’t I tell you?”

“And I’m going with them.”

The smile disappeared instantly.  “Olivia, what?”

“Don’t panic,” said Olivia.  “But I’m going to go with them.”

Oryss vaulted over the couch and threw herself at the door.  “Olivia, what are you doing?”

“Don’t open the door,” said Olivia.  “Don’t try and come find me.  I’m safe.”

Oryss tried the knob, but it didn’t open.  “Olivia, what do you mean?”

“Oryss…I love you. And I promise I’ll see you again soon.”

“Olivia, wait!” Oryss shouted.  “What’s going on?”

“Goodbye.”

Whatever had been holding the door shut relented, and Oryss wrenched it open.  But the hallway was empty, except for a few black feathers littering the floor.

* * *

Oryss, understandably alarmed, only stayed with Crowley for a few more minutes before excusing herself and heading out.  It wasn’t until a few minutes after that that Crowley walked into his kitchen and realised she had left all her cookware and containers here.

They all had bigger things on their minds.

Crowley plucked a few of the mysterious feathers from the floor and took them into the flat, shutting the door behind him.  He twirled one in his hand, trying to catch the reflection of the light off of it.

He only knew two people with black wings.  Maltha, and Victoria.  But Maltha’s feathers had undertones of red, and Victoria’s undertones of blue.  This one had undertones of white.

He had no idea who Vincent might be, or who any of the—perhaps multiple—angels with him had been. And he found himself burning with curiosity wondering what exactly they might have said to him had he let them in, and what they could have possibly said to _Olivia_  to get her to react that way.

Eventually, another knock on the door interrupted his brooding.  He tiptoed over and looked out the peephole to see the anticipated person this time.

“Can we talk?” was the first thing Aziraphale said as the door swung open.

“I was just thinking that.”

Crowley closed the door behind the angel, then turned to see Aziraphale with his arms outstretched.

Crowley walked to him and returned the hug.  They sat down on the couch together and both started talking at once.

“You go first,” said Crowley.

Aziraphale took a deep breath.  “Crowley, I don’t know what’s going on right now, and I don’t know what you did and didn’t do, but I should have your bottom no matter what.”

“What?”

“I’m trying to apologize—”

“My back. You should have my back.”

“I know.  And I’m sorry that I didn’t.”  Aziraphale reached out and took his hand. “Crowley, what I’m trying to say is that those things I said to you, and the fact that I didn’t defend you in front of Raphael, and the fact that I doubted you must have really hurt you, and I’m sorry.  Whatever’s going on, we should face it together. That’s what friends are for. Will you forgive me?”

“Yes, I’ll forgive you, if you’ll forgive me for what I said to you.  I should have been more patient with you.  It’s not true that you haven’t changed at all.  You’ve come a long way.  It makes sense that you’d be confused, and I’m sorry that I left you to be scared all on your own.  We should stick together.”

“I forgive you, Crowley.”

“Good,” said Crowley, putting his hand on Aziraphale’s knee and giving it a squeeze.  “Okay, good.  How are we doing?  How are you doing?”

“Scared.”

“Perfectly Natural.”

“You?”

“Double scared.”

“Well, we’re together now.”

Crowley brushed Aziraphale’s cheek.  “We can face anything together.”

“Then let’s,” said Aziraphale.  “Let’s face it.”


	7. A Triptych of Various States of Affairs in Hell, Earth, and Heaven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On tumblr at http://not-a-space-alien.tumblr.com/post/163193134135/falling-hazard-part-7-a-triptych-of-various

 

 

 

* * *

Anyone in Abraxas’s position would have mixed feelings about seeing the banquet hall again. Fortunately for Abraxas, she knew exactly what she wanted to do with those feelings.

Abraxas leapt up onto the table, feet squeaking on the polished wooden surface as she walked down it.

“Abraxas,” said Paula, seating herself in one of the elegant wooden chairs. “Get down from there. Someone is going to have to clean your footprints off.”

“Ha,” said Abraxas. She just desperately wished there was something on the table that she could kick off, like a vase or a bowl. But it was completely cleared.

When she reached the end, she looked down at the regal carved seat at the head of the table, the one upon which Satan had always sat.

Abraxas spun and faced Paula, hands in her pockets.  “Hey Paula?”

They were at opposite ends of the table, so they practically had to shout to hear each other.  “What, Abraxas?”

Abraxas fell backwards into the lord’s chair, sprawling out in it.  “Look, I’m Satan.”

“You’re silly is what you are.”

“Grumble grumble grumble,” said Abraxas.  “Bring me wine. Bring me food. No! Not like that!  I haven’t done a single thing except terrify everyone since the fall of man, but you have to respect me!”

“Is this what demons usually do with their free time in new Hell?” said Paula.

“Dunno,”said Abraxas.

A chime jingled from Abraxas’s pocket.  “Oh shit,” she said, leaping out of the chair.  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it.”

Paula crossed the room to her.  “It’s just your phone, love.”

Abraxas looked at her, then down at herself, patting all her pockets until she found her phone.  “It’s Aziraphale!”

“Well don’t ans—” Paula began, but Abraxas had already picked up.

“Hello?”

Paula made a “cut it out” motion across her neck.  Abraxas’s eyes flickered over her, but she did not hang up.  “Aziraphale!  Hi! Can you hear me okay?  I don’t get good reception here.”

Paula could hear Aziraphale’s voice muffled on the other end of the line.  Abraxas put her hand over the receiver as Paula and Abraxas sniped back and forth under their breath for a few seconds, then Abraxas snapped the phone back up to her head.  “I’m in Hell. I’m helping Maltha with something. Oh, I—Aziraphale, I didn’t give the spell to anyone, if that’s what you’re calling about.”

Paula slapped her forehead.

“The—” Abraxas said, adjusting the phone.  

“What are you doing?” Paula mouthed angrily at her.

“The important spell you told me not to tell anyone.”

“Get him off the line,” Paula whispered, miming hanging the phone up.

“Yes!  Sorry, that’s what I meant. Yes.  But I haven’t given it to anyone.  Just like you told me.  Good ol’ Abraxas.  You can always count on her.”

Paula hid her face in her hands.

“Oh.  Uh-uh.  Trouble? Uh, no not really. Yeah.  You want to talk to her?”

“No,” whispered Paula frantically, waving her hands.  But it was too late, and Abraxas put the phone up to her ear.  “Aziraphale, hi,” she said.  “I’m Paula.”

“Paula?” said Aziraphale’s disembodied voice.  “Oh, we met once in, what was it…”

“Culloden, I think,” offered Paula, “Sometime in the 1800s.”

“Right, yes.  Good to talk to you again,” said Aziraphale.

“You too.  So was there…anything you wanted to ask me, or…?” said Paula, looking at Abraxas with hatred.

“Uh…” said Aziraphale, suddenly sounding unsure.  “Um, some…really crazy stuff happening, isn’t there?”

“For sure.  Keep yourself safe, Aziraphale.  Maltha is worried about you and Crowley.”

“She is?  That’s….hold on a moment, Abraxas said she was in Hell, didn’t she? Are you in Hell with her?”

“Oh shit,” Paula mouthed.

“What?” mouthed Abraxas.

“What do I say?” Paula mouthed.

Abraxas grimaced and raised her shoulders.

“I knew Maltha was making some changes but I didn’t know that angels—were—what are you doing down there?”

Panicked, Paula punched the _End_ button.

“You just hung up on him!” said Abraxas.

“What the hell was I supposed to do?” said Paula.  “You idiot! You know I’m not good at talking on the phone!”

“Well, neither am I! But I can’t just ignore him!”

“For somebody’s sake,” said Paula.  “You obviously can’t be trusted with a phone.  Give it to me.”

“No,” said Abraxas, diving on the phone.  “You can’t take it from me!  The throne room is a Pokéstop!”

As they fought over it, it vibrated in their hands.

“Oh no he’s calling back,” said Abraxas, dropping the phone on the table.

They both frantically danced around the table, trying to decide what to do as it buzzed angrily on the wood.

It went to voicemail. They stopped.

“Okay,” said Paula. “Maybe we sh—”

The phone vibrated again, humming like an angry hornet.  Paula picked it up and threw it at the wall, where it smashed into three pieces.

Abraxas looked at her destroyed phone with horror.  “I just hatched a Chansey.”

Paula patted her shoulder. “You can get a new phone and keep playing that horrible game about the monsters after this is all over.”

Abraxas seated herself at the table, pouting with her head on her hands.  Paula took a seat next to her.

“Seriously, though, you shouldn’t worry,” said Paula.  “Maltha is handling things.”

“Right…” said Abraxas.  “I hope I didn’t say too much. I’m a horrible liar.”

Her eyes flicked up to the entrance to the kitchen, to see an imp peeking out from the doorway had been watching them this whole time.

“Come on over!” said Paula, waving her hand.  “If you want to.  We’re not scary.”

The imp crept out, approaching the table as though Paula were the most frightening thing she had ever seen.

“Ah…what’s up?” said Abraxas.

The imp open and closed her fists, as if trying to decide what to say.

“You work in the kitchen?” said Paula, trying to start conversation.

“Yes,” said the imp.  “And I’ve never seen an angel this close before.”

“Well,” said Paula, spreading her arms, “now you have!”

The imp’s hands kneaded the air nervously.

“Is something wrong?” said Abraxas.

“That sphinx is yours, isn’t it?” said the imp.

“Oh, Toby?” said Abraxas. “Well, he’s not _mine_.  You can’t _own_ a Sphinx. But I’m taking care of him.”

A big grin slowly spread over the imp’s face.  “That’s great.  You found him up on Earth?”

“Yup.”

“Wow.”

“You want to pet him? If I can wrangle him into the room.”

The imp shook her head. “Oh no, I’m not brave enough to _touch_ him.  But just seeing him was a great honour.”

“Mm,” said Abraxas, scratching her head.  “A’right.”

“You spend a lot of time up on Earth?”

“Yeah, usually.”

The imp’s tail swished back and forth excitedly.  “Have you ever seen a griffin?”

“A griffin?” said Abraxas. “I have, as a matter of fact.”

The imp’s face lit up. “Really?  What was it like?”

“I can’t tell you,” said Abraxas, “because griffins only divulge themselves to those who are worthy.”

“Abraxas!” said Paula, slapping her shoulder.

“But how did you prove yourself?” said the imp.  “Your aura is so small…  I mean, I didn’t mean to offend! I’m sorry!”

“That’s okay,” said Abraxas. “But you know what?  It’s not about your aura.  It’s your attitude.  It’s about what you do with what you’re given.”

“Wow,” breathed the imp. “I would love to meet one some day.”

“You could go up to Earth, you know,” said Abraxas.  “You can just walk out.  Nothing is keeping you here except your fear.”

“Oh, well,” said the imp, flustered, “I-I couldn’t go up to Earth.  That’s too frightening.”

“Not at all!” said Abraxas, “Look, do you enjoy working here in the kitchen?”

The imp blushed.  “I do, actually.  A little.  I’ve never cooked before. And I still have time to read.”

Abraxas paused, as if the answer had thrown her a loop.  “Oh. Well, look, you—”

Abraxas was cut off by a voice amplified to fill the dining hall. “Presenting Maltha Queen of Hell and Noah Son of Satan, Adversary, Destroyer of -”

“You really _have_ to do that every time we enter a room?” said Maltha’s annoyed voice.  She appeared from the entrance to the banquet room, a sleepy Noah in one arm.

The lesser demon who had been announcing them shuffled to the side, chastised.  Maltha approached the table and set Noah on it, fussing about his hair.  Noah’s eyes were puffy and red, and he clutched his stuffed rabbit.

Abraxas realized that with time it was, Noah should normally be asleep.  “Is there something wrong, Maltha?”

“My proper title is _lord,_ ” said Maltha tightly.  “And yes, there is.  Noah is very upset and cannot sleep. Which you would be able to see if you used your eyes.”  Her gaze swept across the table.  “Why are there footprints on the banquet table?  Abraxas, Paula, did you see who was walking on it?”

Abraxas and Paula both shook their heads frantically.

Maltha turned her attention back to Noah, scowling.

“Lord Maltha,” said a small demon who was hovering at her elbow.  “The nursemaid can take care of Noah.  You have other things to do.”

“Ashtoreth you mean?” scoffed Maltha.  “Noah cried when he saw her.  I’d hardly let _her_ take care of him.”

“We can find someone else to handle the young prince.  It is not an appropriate use of your time.  I understand this was normally something the queen consort took it upon herself to do, but in her absence—”

Maltha cut him off with a wave of her hand, then curled a finger to motion him closer.  When he leaned in, she smacked his clipboard out of his hand, sending it flying across the room.

“Your head will follow if you try to force that silly schedule on me again,” said Maltha.  “If I have no time for Noah, I have time for nothing.”

The smaller demon bowed his head, creeping away.  Maltha took a deep breath, patted Noah on the head, then turned to the imp that was still loitering by the table with Abraxas and Paula.  “Yulera,” she said, “I think Noah would like some biscuits.”

The imp bowed slightly and said, “I think the cook has just made some, actually.  I’ll bring them right away.”

Maltha turned her attention back to Noah as the imp scampered away.  She tried to straighten his collar.

Noah sniffled pitifully. “When is Bethy coming back?”

She finally gave up fussing about his clothes and combed his hair.  “Soon, I’m sure, dear.  You needn’t trouble yourself about her.”

“But where did she go?” Noah wept.

“All right,” said Maltha. “I know she is the one you really want, but look! Here is something Beth never let you have: sweets past your bedtime.”

The server was making her way back into the room with a platter of biscuits.  Just as she reached Noah, the doors to the banquet hall boomed open, accompanied by the rattling of armor.

The imp dropped the tray in absolute terror, fleeing back to the safety of the kitchen like a bug under a freshly overturned rock.  The object of her distress was a warrior angel with black wings, who strolled into the room with a hand raised in greeting, approaching Maltha.  “My Queen, I—”

Maltha hissed and grabbed the rim of his breastplate, yanking him down.  “Vincent, I told you that you scare the staff when you move about like that.  Let Mammon tell everyone you are coming.”

Vincent gave her a dirty look, then crouched down, picking up a biscuit from the floor.  “Lord Maltha, Mammon was not in the antechamber. It was imperative I speak to you as soon as possible.”

Maltha smacked the biscuit out of his hand right before it reached his mouth.  “Don’t eat food off the floor like some damnable pigeon. That was not for you.”

Vincent glowered, crossing his arms.  “You are in a foul mood.”

Maltha ground her teeth, closing her eyes, irritated.  “Yes, Vincent, I am in a foul mood.  Why don’t you make things easier for all of us and give your report.  How did it go?  The fact that you returned tells me Crowley must have sent you back.”

A loose group of about five other angels meandered into the room behind Vincent. “Mmm, yes,” he said. “He wouldn’t even let us into his flat.”

Maltha palmed her face. “Okay…Vincent…Did you… _tell_ him that I sent you to protect him?  Or did you just show up and ask to be let in, just like any of the warrior angels he might be needing protection _from?_ ”

“Um,” said Vincent.

“Now hold on a minute,” said the warrior behind Vincent, stepping forwards.  “He wouldn’t open the door.  We couldn’t just very well shout through it, for anyone to hear, ‘Hey there, we follow the commands of the queen of hell, oh by the way, feel free to have Uriel punish us for disloyalty whenever you feel like it!’”

Maltha tapped her fingers on the table.  “That’s fair. Well, let’s not badger the poor man. If he wants to be left alone, he can be the judge of that.”

Vincent crouched down and took another biscuit off the floor.  Maltha sighed and said, “You don’t have to eat the ones off the floor. We can order a fresh batch from the kitchen.”

Vincent, nonplussed, took a bite out of his, and said through the crumbs, “Oh, Lord Maltha, it was important for us to speak with you because we have brought someone else down for you.”

Maltha clapped her hands together.  “Wonderful! Just what I needed to improve my mood.  Where are they?”

Two warriors parted to reveal a principality looking around looking very unsure of herself.

“And hello to you,” said Maltha, beckoning her forwards.  “Who might you be?”

“Olivia,” said the principality, kneeling.

“I understand a salute is more conventional for angels, is it not?” said Maltha, extending her hand. “Or a handshake?”

Olivia straightened up. “Some would argue I stopped being an angel the moment I bowed to you.”

Maltha’s face split in a grin with just slightly too many teeth in it.  “Goodness, let’s hope not.  Now, would you spread your wings for me, please?”

Hesitantly, Olivia spread her wings.  She then gave a sharp cry of surprise as Maltha plucked a feather from the base.

Olivia folded her wings in and turned around, but Maltha was no longer looking at her.  She held the feather up to the light, examining it.  

“Oh, Lord Maltha,” said Vincent, still squatting on the floor with the discarded biscuits. “Heaven has finally chosen the new archangel.”

Maltha brought the feather to her mouth, tasting it.  Olivia watched with fascinated disgust.

“Interesting…” said Maltha. “Okay.  And who is the new archangel who will bring their numbers back up to the full seven?”

“The power Victoria.”

Maltha paused, eyes flashing back onto Vincent.  “I see they chose a warrior,” she said with an evil grin.  “We are already winning.  They’re afraid of losing Michael and being left without any sword at all.”  Maltha set the feather on the table, then picked Noah back up.  The small boy curled against her shoulder, exhausted from crying.  “Vincent, will you go back to Heaven and take care of that? It sounds like Raphael could use some help.  The poor boy always did struggle to get anything done.”

“Yes, lord,” said Vincent.

Maltha snapped her fingers at the small demon with the clipboard, who had been sitting in the corner, chastised.  “You there. Please get out a piece of parchment and a quill.”

“Are you finally going to send out a general address?” said Abraxas.

“The promotion of the new archangel will likely further the panic among Hell’s ranks.  I can’t pretend we’re doing nothing anymore. Now, write this down…”

* * *

Crowley had asked Aziraphale to sleep on the couch that night, which hadn’t bothered Aziraphale as much as he thought it might have.  Sometimes you just need space.

He woke up before the demon and set about making breakfast.  His ears pricked up at the sound of bare feet on tile, and the kiss he had been hoping for arrived on the back of his neck.

“You’re up early,” said Aziraphale, flipping a pancake.

Arms appeared around his waist.  “Wasn’t comfortable.”

Aziraphale made no comment on that, instead moving to set the table.

Crowley took a seat at the table and let Aziraphale spoon scrambled eggs onto his plate.  “Oh, you’ve gotten a correspondence, dear,” Aziraphale. “On the table there.  I thought we might open it together.”

Crowley picked up his fork and skewered a sausage link.  “Why don’t we wait a few minutes?  Let’s just eat our breakfast in peace.”

“All right,” said Aziraphale, taking his seat, and then as if they were still on vacation: “What would you like to do today?”

Crowley gestured with a fork.  “Well, far as I can see there’s nothing _to_ do. Figure we should just keep sitting tight.”

“Maybe that letter will have some information we can use.”

“Mmm.”

“I should probably run over to the shop later in the day to check for any mail.  At least once today.”

“Yeah.”

“But let’s worry about that later.”

“Yeah.”

They ate slowly and deliberately, willfully ignoring the situation, taking a breather in each other’s company.  When they were finished, Aziraphale collected all their dishes and loaded them into the dishwasher.

“All right,” said Crowley. “Now, let’s look at it, I guess.”

The letter was on infernal parchment, with Maltha’s seal on it.  Crowley broke the seal and unfurled it for them both to read.

_To all the denizens of Hell,_

_Heaven has hurt me in a very deep and personal way, and despite my staunch insistence on keeping Noah out of the War, they intend to charge ahead anyway, against the Ineffable Plan that they themselves claim to love so much._

_They have declared war.  If it is bloodshed, chaos, and violence they desire so much, they shall have it.  But do not fear for your lives, for the safety of your companions and the fate of the Earth many of us have grown to care for.  Heaven’s representatives do not understand the full gravity of what they have done.  They have awakened an angry, dangerous beast, and Hell’s war machine reaches much further than they have wagered._

- _The archdemon Maltha_

Aziraphale looked up at Crowley to see that he was grimacing.  “Was this supposed to be reassuring?  Because it’s not. Like…at all.”

Aziraphale squeezed his shoulder.  “Maybe we can try to write her back?  She brushed me off, but maybe she’ll listen to you.”

Crowley did not look optimistic.  “Maybe. Worth a try, I guess.”

Crowley took the seat at his desk and withdrew his fanciest set of pens.  He tapped one on a parchment to get the ink flowing.  “All right.  What should we say?”

Aziraphale never got to answer, because at that moment there was a knock on the door.

“Let me get it,” said Aziraphale.  “I’ll see who it is.”

“Okay.”

Aziraphale walked over and looked into the peephole.  “It’s Angelo!”

“Angelo?” said Crowley, abandoning his stationery.  “Let him in. It might be important, and I don’t think _he’s_ going to hurt me.”

“All right,” said Aziraphale.

He undid the chain and the deadbolt and cracked the door open.  The sigils around the place fell.  Angelo stood in the hallway, staring at him very hard.

Aziraphale pulled the door open fully. “Angelo, we weren’t expecting—”

Angelo’s attention snapped from Aziraphale to Crowley. “You!” he shouted, streaking past Aziraphale and launching into the flat.

Angelo’s stature and weakness of aura meant that he posed no real physical threat to anyone, not even Crowley, but he tackled the demon with impressive effort, jamming his shoulder into his stomach and knocking the wind out of him.  Crowley stumbled back and rolled as he tumbled down, kicking Angelo off him.

“What are you doing, you bloody lunatic?” Crowley shouted as he tried to fend off mildly offensive punches.

Aziraphale intervened eventually and pulled Angelo off by his collar.  The smaller angel continued to swing and curse even as his fists fell on empty air.

“Angelo, _what_ are you doing?” said Aziraphale.

“This is _his_ fault,” panted Angelo, finally slowing down. “Michael is going to fall because of him!”

Aziraphale forced him to sit in the easy chair and asked Crowley to make them some tea.  Crowley removed himself out of the danger zone into the kitchen.  

“Angelo, please calm down.”

When Crowley came back into the room with a tray of teacups, Angelo tried to lunge at him again.  Aziraphale blocked him.  “Sit _down,_ or we’ll kick you out.”

Angelo fell still, looking at them both with intense bitterness as Crowley poured them tea.

“Now, Angelo, why don’t you tell us, _calmly_ , what you came here for?”

Angelo burst into tears and big, ugly sobs.

“Oh, dear,” said Aziraphale.

“Listen,” said Crowley. “Neither of us know what’s going on with Michael, but it wasn’t me.  Raphael won’t listen to me.  I don’t know what he’s thinking.”

Angelo looked down, sniffing.  “I was afraid you might say that.”

“Wait, do you _believe_ me?” said Crowley.

Angelo took his teacup and sipped it, scalding hot and without adding anything to it. He had never had tea before, and unsurprisingly didn’t find it to his liking.  He grimaced and put his cup back down, saying, “I don’t understand what Raphael is doing.  It doesn’t make sense even if Crowley _were_ lying.  He’s obviously just using you as a cover story for whatever he’s _really_ trying to do.”

“Angelo,” said Aziraphale, “Victoria told us that Michael attacked you.”

Angelo nodded miserably. “He almost killed me.”

“I’m so sorry,” said Aziraphale, putting a hand on his.  “This whole affair must be difficult for you.  Have you been able to talk any sense into Raphael?”

“I…I haven’t tried.”

They both stared at him disbelievingly.

Angelo’s hand shied away from under Aziraphale’s.  “I was too afraid. I’ve just been hiding this whole time.  For the first time ever, _Michael_ is the one who needs help, and I can’t even work up the courage to _try_ and help him the way he always helped me.” Tears started to spill down his cheeks again.  “Because I’m a goddamn coward.”

Aziraphale tried to pat his hand again, but he refused to be comforted.  “Angelo, you almost died,” said Crowley.  “Don’t be so hard on yourself. It’s only natural that you’d be scared.”

“I need help.  I need someone to help me help him.  Aziraphale, I was hoping…”

Aziraphale tried not to grimace. He really did.  Angelo broke eye contact with him, dejected.

“If we could help, we would,” said Crowley.  “Maybe it’d clear my name and get me out of this mess Raphael’s thrown me into.  But neither of us have any control over the situation.”

“Now hold on,” said Aziraphale.  “You don’t need to worry.  It takes all six of the other archangels to agree to cast the seventh out, and that’s not going to happen.  At the very least, Gabriel is deadset against letting Raphael have his way. I’m positive Uriel and Metatron are on his side.  Goodness, they haven’t even replaced Camael yet.  Michael _can’t_ fall as things stand now.”

“You haven’t heard? They made Victoria the new archangel last night.”

“Did they?” said Aziraphale, brightening.  “I’m sure she’ll sort this whole thing out, then.  She was just about ready to throttle Raphael last time I spoke to her. She’s more committed to Michael’s wellbeing than anyone else in the situation.  Now that she’s got some authority—“

“She’s come out in favour of Michael falling.”

Aziraphale sloshed tea out of his cup.  “ _What?_ ”

“Why on Earth—In Heaven—would she do that?” Crowley exclaimed.

“I don’t know,” said Angelo fretfully.  “I saw her go into the infirmary after she was promoted, but I don’t know if she ever came back out.  She sent the other archangels her decision in a letter.”

Crowley picked up his teacup and sipped, thinking very hard.

“Raphael’s done something to her,” said Aziraphale, echoing his thoughts.  “Do we know for certain that letter was from her?”

Angelo shrugged.

“I never thought Raphael, of all people, might be capable of such subterfuge,” said Aziraphale.

“Raphael’s been hiding in the infirmary and hardly comes out,” said Angelo.  “He’s got Michael locked up in there and on so many drugs he can’t even string a sentence together.  I think Raphael is afraid that if he leaves Michael alone, one of the other archangels will come override his commands and take Michael away from him.”

“My God,” said Aziraphale. “If Raphael is doing that to him, Michael wouldn’t even be able to speak to defend himself.  Is that why he’s doing it?  To try and avoid Michael worsening his case?”

“Maybe,” said Angelo, flustered.  “But maybe he really does believe Michael is too dangerous to be walking around freely. When he attacked me, it almost seemed like he didn’t realize what he was doing.  Afterwards he was horrified to see what he’d done.  He didn’t even resist when Raphael took him prisoner.”

“Maybe Raphael really does believe Michael is too dangerous to be in Heaven anymore,” said Aziraphale. “I don’t know what else he could be doing.”

“I hate this!” cried Angelo. “I’m tired of the other archangels always mistreating him, treating him like he’s too stupid to make decisions. I thought Raphael was the one of them we could trust.  And I’m too much of a coward and a wimp to do anything, as always.  Aziraphale!  Crowley! Please, you have to help me.  We have to do something.  Please. He would hate Hell so much.  He would _hate_ it.  He wanted so badly to be under the blue sky, and Hell—and all the demons down there already hate him and want to hurt him. I can’t imagine what—they would do to him—and… Imagine what kind of demon he would be. Can you imagine?  That much raw power in someone hurting that badly, and finally free of Heaven’s restraints?  Undirected?  Creation wouldn’t stand a chance.”

Angelo hid his face in his hands. Aziraphale and Crowley sat there with that very unsettling mental image.

If Michael fell, that would create a new archdemon even more powerful than Maltha, and there was no telling what he might do.  And Heaven would be the only place safe from that wrath.

It might be in their best interest to stop Michael from falling, if they wanted the Earth to stay in one piece.

That is, if they _could_ do anything about it.  If even Victoria could somehow fail, they might be out of luck.

“I don’t know what’s happening to him.  He used to be so gentle, Aziraphale.  After everything they’ve done to him, and everything he’s done for everyone else, he deserves some help.  He doesn’t deserve _this._ ”

“Angelo,” said Crowley with concern, because it seemed like Angelo was on the verge of an absolute breakdown each time he spoke.

“I know you don’t like him all that much,” wept Angelo.  “I get it. He’s hurt you both.  You don’t have to forgive him if you don’t want to. But he needs help.  He needs it bad.”

“But there’s nothing we can do, Angelo,” fussed Aziraphale.  “We’ve been having a hard time even getting any information.”

“Oh come _on_ ,” said Angelo.  “You two can do anything you want to.  You fought off the legions of Hell trying to get the antichrist just because you felt like it.  I know you can do something if you really wanted to.”

Crowley let out a snort as Angelo spoke.  “Is that really how you see us?”

Angelo flushed.  “Come on, you have to help me.  He saved your life, Crowley. And Aziraphale, he always considered you a friend.  He went out of his way to help you and help the Earth even though he knew he would be punished for it.”

“Punished…?” said Aziraphale.

Angelo did not answer.

“You mean they punished him for those times he went against orders and came down to Earth?” Crowley picked up.

“Of course!” said Angelo. “Didn’t you kind of pick up on how upset the other archangels got when he didn’t do what they told him to?”

“Well, of course,” said Aziraphale.  “But they’re the same rank, I didn’t see how they _could_ …”

“Well, they used me, usually.”

Aziraphale was about to ask him to elaborate, but it looked like he wanted to cry again, so he left that thread alone.  “All right,” said Aziraphale.  “Crowley?”

“Maybe we can think of something,” said Crowley.  “What courses of action do we have at our disposal?”

“Well,” said Aziraphale, staring into his teacup.  “Maybe we can have Angelo talk to Raphael?”

“I think we’ve established pretty thoroughly by now that talking isn’t going to accomplish anything,” said Crowley.

“Fair point,” said Aziraphale.  “So…We know now that Michael is in the infirmary.  If we could get him out and away from Raphael, would that help?  Then he could at least speak to defend himself, instead of Raphael having complete control over him.  And maybe they couldn’t sentence him if they didn’t know where he was.”

“Maybe,” said Angelo. “It’s worth a try.”

“But the question is how we might get him out,” said Aziraphale.  “Everyone in Heaven will recognize me and Angelo and know what we’re doing right away.  We’d need…some sort of disguise, or a ruse, or a distraction to empty the infirmary...”

Angelo scratched his head. “We could use a smoke bomb.”

“…A smoke bomb.”

Angelo raised his shoulders, as if to say _I’ve got nothing._

Crowley suddenly hissed and downed the rest of his tea.

“You have an idea?” said Aziraphale.

“Of course I have an idea!” Crowley fumed.  “I always have an idea!  I’m the slippery serpent!  But I don’t want to tell you what it is because it’ll probably get me skinned alive!”

“Crowley,” said Aziraphale, putting his hand on Crowley’s.  “If we can do this, I’m sure it’d clear your reputation.  It might just fix this whole mess.”

And maybe, just maybe Aziraphale himself wanted that confirmation that Crowley wasn’t hiding an ulterior motive.  Crowley could not tell, and it pissed him off to no end.  He poured himself another cup of tea, this one with a miraculously higher alcohol content than the stuff in the pot, and downed it as well.

Angelo got out of his chair and knelt at Crowley’s feet.  “I am _begging_ you.  I’d do anything to save him.   _Anything._ ”

Crowley set his cup down, looking sullen.  “Get up off my floor, Angelo.”  He rubbed his temples.  “Everyone will recognize _you two_ , but probably nobody in the infirmary except Raphael would recognize _me._  And since I’m a healer, no one would even question why I was there.  I could just slip in and wait around until Raphael wasn’t looking, then break Michael out.”

Angelo looked at him uncomfortably.  “But you’re a _demon._ You can’t even get in past the gates!”

“Yes,” said Crowley, irritated, as though he were getting to the part that really bothered him.  “But, the archdemon Agares, when she was posturing for Satan’s empty throne, garnered support because she claimed to have found—”

“A way for demons to get into Heaven unharmed!” said Aziraphale, nearly leaping up.  “And we happen to have a demon who worked for Agares in our contacts—Abraxas!  She knows how to do it!”

“You are suggesting,” said Angelo slowly, “that, with whatever this thing is that Agares discovered, Crowley, you can just…walk in and take Michael?”

“I was able to just walk into Hell and get the information we needed to kill Ba’al Berith.  It’s…not that different I suppose.  And everybody ‘knows’ that Hell doesn’t have healers except Maltha, so they won’t have any reason to suspect me.  Everyone’s forgotten about me.”

“But they’ll be able to tell you’re a demon by your aura,” said Angelo.

“Let’s see what Abraxas can tell us,” said Aziraphale.  “Maybe there will be some way to hide it.” He leaned over and planted a kiss on Crowley’s forehead.  “Clever serpent.”

“If I were really that clever, I would have kept it to myself,” he muttered as Aziraphale pulled out his mobile phone.

“Oh, Crowley, may I use your mobile?” Aziraphale said.  “I used all my minutes earlier on…something.”

Crowley sighed and handed his device over.

“Thank you,” Angelo said. “Let’s do this. I’ll find some way to repay you. _Thank_ you.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” he said sourly.

* * *

Three minutes.

That’s how much time Raphael had to prepare for Victoria’s arrival, and he only got that much because Ramial, who had gotten into the habit of hanging around Heaven’s infirmary, saw her coming and thought to dash back and tell Raphael about her approach.  Raphael had thanked her, sent her away to clear the hallway for whatever was about to happen, and sat at his desk as properly as possible.

This was one going to be one Hell of an argument.  

Victoria arrived just as predicted, shoving lesser healers who had tried to tell her off out of the way.

A cluster of worried powers of healing were visible behind Victoria as she opened the door.  But there was no one they could have called because, in reality, the other archangels were not only pleased about how this was going to go, but had in fact promoted her for this very purpose.

The door to Raphael’s office slammed shut with far more force than traditionally warranted.  And the newly minted archangel Victoria stood in front of it, burning Raphael with a glare of absolute hatred.

Raphael tapped his fingers on his desk nervously.

Victoria marched forwards and slammed her hands on his paperwork, rattling everything on his desk.

Raphael, fidgeting, gave her a smile and said, “Victoria, you’ve been an archangel for a total of, what, three hours?  And you’ve already—”

Victoria cut him off with one broad gesture that swiped everything off his desk and onto the floor.

Raphael’s nervous smile broadened.  “You know, Victoria, you’re an archangel now.  It’s customary for you to invite other people into your office, rather than going to see them.”

Victoria’s hand shot out and clamped on his throat, ripped him out of his chair, and slammed him into the wall, sliding him up it until his feet dangled.

“I don’t give a fuck about my _office_ ,” Victoria growled.  “You absolute worm.  You slimy invertebrate.”  

Raphael said nothing.  It would have been difficult to do so, anyway.

“You and Crowley and Maltha.  Is this all you healers are?  Liars and traitors?  Other people come to you for help when they are vulnerable, and you trick them into spearing their hand on a sword by pretending it is a hand for them to shake.”

Raphael said nothing.

Victoria squeezed his throat, and he spasmed.  “Give me one reason why I shouldn’t just kill you right here, hm? Do you think the other archangels would care?  You think Gabriel would be secretly relieved he didn’t have to deal with you anymore? You think Uriel couldn’t just write over someone else’s page to make yet another new archangel?  You think Michael would be relieved that his _own brother_ —”

Victoria’s fingers sunk into his throat, and he began to kick his legs feebly. “—isn’t spreading slander about him anymore, trying to throw him to the beasts, cast him into the Pit!”

“Victoria,” Raphael finally managed to say, although his airway was completely cut off so he had to us a miracle to speak.

“Have you ever thought about what they’d do to him down there?” Victoria yelled. “He’s been the capital B Big Bad for all the demons of Hell to hate for six-thousand years!”

The door clicked open quietly, and a warrior angel with black wings slid in, closing it behind him.

Victoria paused, not removing her hands from where she was strangling Raphael.

“Victoria,” said the warrior, saluting her.  “Please stop what you’re doing.”

Victoria looked from the new arrival to Raphael and back again, then released the other archangel.  Raphael fell to the ground, coughing.

“Vincent,” said Victoria, finally placing his name.  “You were one of Michael’s favourite warriors.  You were ready to die next to him defending Aziraphale from Agares.  And you’d take _Raphael’s_ side in this?”

Vincent ran his fingers along the hilt of his sword.  “There are things you do not know, Victoria.  This is for Michael’s own good.”

Raphael, still panting, righted himself and braced himself on his thighs. “Ah—ahhh—thank you for coming, Vincent,” he wheezed.  “And just in time.”  He staggered over to Vincent and put a hand on his shoulder, patting him.  “Ah…. Are you molting?  Feather loss could be a symptom of an infection.”

“Sir,” said Vincent stiffly.  

“It’s okay, you don’t have to be shy.  Everyone molts.”

“Sir,” said Vincent.  “I hardly think my wings should be a priority.”

“Right,” Raphael said, finally catching his breath. “You’re right sorry. Our priority should be…  Victoria, would you like to see Michael?  I think it might clear some things up.”

“See him?” said Victoria.  “Yes. Take me to him.”

Raphael tentatively slid past her to exit the office, leading the two of them through the halls of the infirmary.  Victoria vibrated with barely suppressed rage the entire time.

Raphael stopped at one particular door and withdrew a set of keys from his pocket.

Victoria smacked the keychain out of his hand.  “You’ve got him locked up like an animal.”

Raphael patiently bent down and picked the keys back up.

“Victoria,” said Vincent.  “Please calm your tits.”

Both archangels looked at him questioningly.

“It’s a phrase I learned on Earth, when I was assigned to be someone’s guardian angel,” said Vincent, looking very serious.  “It means, ‘Don’t worry, everything is under control.’”

“All right, then,” said Victoria.  “I will calm my tits.  But you had better make things clear to me.”

“We will,” said Raphael, unlocking the door.

The room beyond had soft walls and not much else.  Michael sat on the floor with his head leaning against the wall. His eyes were hollow and stared straight ahead even as they entered and Victoria dashed over to him.

Victoria let out a gasp and knelt.  “What did you _do_ to him?”

“We—” Raphael began.

“This is outrageous,” Victoria said, cupping Michael’s face.  “His corporation has lost so much weight.  Haven’t you been feeding him?”

“Yes, but as you can see—” Raphael tried again.

“Can’t he hear me?” Victoria said as Michael’s head lolled in her hand. “What’s wrong with him?  What have you done?”

“All I’ve done is—“

“What’s wrong with his aura?” Victoria said, frantically moving her hands all over him.  “What’s happening?”

“Commander.  Victoria,” said Vincent.  “If you let Raphael speak, he will explain everything to you.”

Victoria stood.  “Right. Sorry.”

Raphael took a deep breath.  “Victoria, what you see happening to Michael is not the result of anything I’ve done, but a fated breakdown that had been planned from the beginning of Creation. All I’ve done is give him some sedatives to ease his pain and calm him down.  But he needs extremely large doses, so he’s not very aware of what’s going on around him.”

Victoria looked down to Michael, who still leaned against the padded wall with a blank expression.  “What do you mean?”

“Uriel said that Michael was fated to die in the war.  The Final Battle was supposed to be the end for him. And when it kept getting delayed and delayed, it started to take a toll on him.  Right now we were scheduled to be nearing the climax of the destruction of Hell’s armies.  Michael’s form is trying to metamorphosize into what it would be to let him accomplish such a feat.  He is descending into mindless bloodlust that will eclipse all other cognitive functions. He is, essentially, dying.”

“Dying?” said Victoria.  She knelt again and put a hand on Michael’s head.

“Yes,” said Raphael.  “His mind will go first, but I suspect his body will go next.  His corporation was never designed to hold something like this, so it might begin to break down as his aura expands and shatters.  But I’m not entirely sure _what_ will happen to him.  I’ve never seen any other angel deteriorate this way.  Michael is a unique case.”

Victoria stopped stroking Michael’s hair, then abruptly stood, pivoted, and decked Raphael, who at least landed on the padded floor this time.

“Then why the _Hell_ are you trying to cast him out of Heaven?” Victoria shouted.  “If what you’re saying is true, he needs you now more than ever!  He needs his family to come together and support him!  How could you demand we abandon him to the Pits of Hell?  Into eternal darkness?”

“Commander Victoria,” said Vincent.  “Please stop hitting Raphael.”

Victoria crossed her arms sourly as Raphael hauled himself back to his feet.

“I’m not sure you understand the severity of what’s happening, Victoria,” said Vincent.  “The fact that Raphael has him sedated might be the only thing keeping Michael from killing us right now.”

Victoria looked back to Michael.  “He wouldn’t do that.  He’s never hurt angels before.  He’s got a good heart.”

“He nearly killed Angelo,” said Raphael.

Victoria looked at him sharply.

“We put him under before he got any worse,” said Raphael.  “I think we might have slowed the progression. Michael didn’t seem to realize he had hurt Angelo and was extremely distressed when he found out what he’d done.  I’m afraid to let him off the sedatives because if he’s gotten any worse, there might not be anyone who can overpower him to subdue him again.”

“Jesus Christ,” said Victoria, rubbing her face in her hands.  

“Don’t bring him into this,” said Vincent.

“All right,” said Victoria.  “Okay. Fuck.  Okay.  So what are you doing?  What’s the plan?  How do we treat him?  Can we save him?”

“All right,” said Raphael, taking a deep breath. “This is the part you are probably not going to like.”

Victoria waited for him to continue, wondering what he could possibly be going to say if what had been said so far was the part she _would_ like.

“I went down to Hell and told Maltha about what was happening, and—”

“You _what?_ ”

Vincent, sensing what was about to happen, stepped between the two archangels. “Commander, I really must insist that you keep your hands to yourself.”

Victoria unclenched her fist.

“I had a consultation with Maltha,” said Raphael.  “She had a chance to examine Michael during their time together in Aziraphale’s shop, so we put our heads together.  The diagnosis we came up with was that the only way to save him would be for him to Fall.”

“To…Fall?”

“Yes.  Maltha has already agreed to ensure his safety in Hell to the best of her abilities regardless of the outcome.  Severing Michael from his angelic role may—”

“And you _trusted_ her?  You _believed_ the ruler of Hell telling you it would be for Michael’s own good to send him straight down to her, to be under her control?  Are you fucking stupid?”

“Victoria,” said Vincent in a cautionary tone.

“Victoria,” said Raphael, “give me some credit.  She didn’t make this up.  We came up with it together.  This is his chance for avoiding his fate as the Sword of Heaven, and the destruction of the Earth.”

Reeling, Victoria stepped backwards.  “Those angels who had all gone missing.”

“They’ve abandoned their loyalty to Heaven.  They are in Hell under Maltha’s protection, preparing for Michael’s arrival.”

“You think Maltha would do this out of the goodness of her heart? Really?”

“Use your head, Victoria.  Why _wouldn’t_ Maltha want Michael to fall?  It’d be effectively disarming Heaven.  This is in her best interest as well.  And she is not cruel.  She knows Michael’s needs to be happy are very simple, and she would take better care of him.  I _trust_ her more than I trust Gabriel.”

“Why?”

“Because Gabriel would sacrifice Michael to start the war. He would sacrifice _anything_ to start the war.  He knew this whole time that Michael was going to be destroyed, but he was willing to let that happen.  And he abused Michael for six-thousand years to make sure he stayed in that role that would eventually see _this_ happened to him.”

Victoria looked back down to Michael, who was still looking straight ahead foggily.

Doubt hit Victoria like a train as she suddenly realized that _she_ trusted Gabriel less than Maltha, too.  And all at once, that realization came bundled with the recognition of the true gravity of what that meant: That she could dissent from Heaven, aloud, the way Raphael had just done.  That she was thinking for herself.

That she had free will.

That she, and Raphael, and Gabriel, and Uriel, and yes even Metatron, they all _had_ free will.   But nothing had changed.  They had always had it.  They had just never used it before.

And Gabriel, instead of using his to stand up for the Earth like Aziraphale and Crowley, or question God like Maltha, or put the wellbeing of his sibling above the will of Heaven like Raphael, was using his to be a right bastard. Like Camael had done.

“Okay,” said Victoria. “So what does Crowley have to do with any of this?”

Raphael smiled faintly.  “Er…Nothing actually.”

“Shit,” said Victoria.  “I was afraid you were going to say that.  Now I owe him an apology.”

“I think a lot of us do.”

“You used him as a cover story.  And not even a very good one.”

“If I let the other archangels know the _real_ reason why I wanted Michael to fall, I could be cast out of Heaven.  I could be cast out of Heaven just for consulting with Maltha alone.  So I had to come up with some excuse for why he might need to be punished.  He’s never done anything to _me,_ so I had to press it on someone else’s behalf. And the only celestial agents he’s hurt are Angelo and Crowley.  But everyone knows Angelo would never do that, and Crowley…”

“Was conveniently missing,” said Victoria.  “And could be safely blamed for any number of things to take the heat off you.”

Raphael put his arms around himself, and Victoria noticed for the first time how _scared_ he looked.  He had understood the full gravity of the situation from the very beginning.  He had placed a great deal of trust in Victoria by telling her all this.  If even one or two of the sentences he had said got back to Gabriel, it would be plenty of grounds for he himself to be cast out, just as he said.

Putting Michael’s wellbeing ahead of the war was an act that could not be forgiven. Handing him over to Hell to save him would basically guarantee that the war would not happen, because Heaven would be stripped of its greatest weapon against a Hell that _had_ that very same weapon.  Heaven would never win, and they’d know it, and they would never start the war.

Raphael was turning the entire Great Plan on its head, arse over teakettle. Going against the other archangels and God Himself.  Raphael was treading well over the line past which other archangels had gotten themselves disciplined in the ultimate way.

Raphael had known that she would agree with him, that she would be willing to go against Heaven. Because she loved her big brother the same way that Raphael did.  He had known exactly how this would play out in her head.

Damn him.  He was smarter than she thought.  And now she felt the exhilaration of rebellion coursing through her veins.

“All right,” she said, extending her hands out to Raphael and Vincent. “Let’s do this.”


	8. Back to Heaven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On tumblr at http://not-a-space-alien.tumblr.com/post/163314394030/falling-hazard-part-8-back-to-heaven

 

 

* * *

It was a bit more difficult to get the way into Heaven from Abraxas than anticipated.  They had a hard time getting ahold of her.  When they finally did, she rushed to explain to them that Paula hadn’t hung up on them, her phone had just died, and she hadn’t called back because she had dropped her phone and had only been able to fix it just now, and she swore she called back as soon as she turned it on and saw thirty seven missed calls from him, _honestly—_

Aziraphale cut her off and assured her that it was all right.  He then asked her for the important spell he had told her not to tell anyone.

Abraxas _hemm_ ed and _hmm_ ed and reminded Aziraphale that he had said the information was not to be used unless under dire circumstances.  Aziraphale responded by telling her circumstances were very dire.  She did not seem to quite believe him, and they had a subtle verbal wrestling match during which Aziraphale managed to pry it out of her despite her reluctance.

In the end the call, which involved Abraxas reading verbatim from a very old tome for them to transcribe, revealed that the item that allowed demons to enter Heaven was a spell called _Angel Dust_.  And it turned out there was a reason the spell had never been used, and they needn’t have worried about Agares using it to destroy Heaven.  And that reason was the requirement of the titular ingredient:

_Angel feathers, knowingly and willingly given, without compulsion._

Meaning the demon going into Heaven had to have the blessing of an angel who knew they were giving their feathers for this particular spell.  

Angelo and Aziraphale could provide those.  The amount listed was a bit troublesome: _Varies depending on aura strength.  The more the better. Crush into a fine powder._

The rest of the ingredients were simple enough to get. Aziraphale had most of them lying around.  A few were rarer; they ended up calling upon a befuddled Anathema, who insisted they looked familiar but couldn’t place from where she knew them.  They bought their spell ingredients from her occult shop and split before she could remember.  

The spell, they found out, functioned by putting a layer of neutral angelic essence between the demon and the atmosphere of Heaven, wrapping their aura in a protective bubble.  The layer of angel dust would insulate them and keep their aura from touching whatever it was in that blessed place that made it so painful.

And luck seemed to be on their side, because the final note on the bottom of the spell said:

_When you can no longer sense the demon’s aura, you’ll know the spell is working. It will maintain its function as long as it remains on the demon’s skin._

Crowley’s aura was not very powerful, but to be safe Angelo and Aziraphale each plucked great handfuls of feathers from each wing into the mortar.  Their down filled the air with dandruff as they ground them up.  The rest of the ingredients went into the cauldron after it, a big soupy mess that blended easily.

The last step was letting it dehydrate in strong sunlight, and the end product was a soft grey powder.  Aziraphale experimentally tossed some onto Crowley, and he dusted himself with it.

“Ooh,” said Aziraphale.  “That is _eerie._ ”  Crowley’s aura felt muffled, masked overwhelmingly by an uncanny mix of Aziraphale and Angelo’s own auras.  Aziraphale experimentally reached out with his own aura and brushed against Crowley’s--or rather, where Crowley’s _would_  be, if it hadn’t been coated.

“Did you feel that?”

“Feel what?” said Crowley.

“Huh.”

“Is it working?” said Crowley.

“Yes,” said Aziraphale.  “Come on, I think we’re ready!”

* * *

_Why did I agree to do this? Why did I agree to this?  Why am I doing this?  Why did I do this?_

This was the general gist of Crowley’s stream of thought as they made their preparations.

“I’ve brought this robe,” said Angelo.  “It’s got Michael’s insignia on it, so if anyone asks you’re among Michael’s ranks stationed on Earth.”

“I know what Michael’s insignia looks like,” he snapped, almost too nervous to move.

He changed into the robe and shook his wings out.  He looked the part of the angel, except for his eyes, but they had gotten some theatrical contacts that would make his eyes look like they were brown.

“We’ll be waiting right here in case anything goes wrong,” said Aziraphale. He began to throw handfuls of the angel dust onto Crowley as Angelo laid the circle out on the floor.

“You have an idea of what to do?” said Aziraphale.

“Yes, I’m excellent at espionage, Aziraphale.”  Crowley patted himself to ensure the spell distributed itself evenly over him.  He felt it settling onto his skin, and rubbed a bit off with his finger.  It seemed like it would stay on him pretty reliably unless someone grabbed him rather forcefully, a possibility he would have to make it a priority to avoid.

Aziraphale touched Crowley’s hand.  “Calm down.  You’re shaking.”

“Just bloody—”  He smoothed his hair back, running dust all through it.  “I’m fine.  Let’s go.”

The portal yawned open.  Angelo stood back. Aziraphale sprinkled a few more handfuls of dust onto him.

“If you put any more on him, they’ll be able to see he’s dusted with something,” said Angelo.  “His aura is already masked so that should be enough.”

“I want to make sure he doesn’t get hurt.”

“He’ll get hurt if they find him out.”

“They won’t find him out.”

“They will if they notice he’s trailing dust like a chimney sweep!”

“Maybe you and I should go in after him and wait somewhere in Heaven to help him if he needs it.”

“If they see me skulking around they’ll know something’s up, and if they see you around they’re more likely to recognize him since they’ve only ever seen him next to you.”

“Angel, I can do this,” said Crowley, sounding much more confident than he felt.  “Don’t worry. I’ll find a way.”

“Okay,” said Aziraphale, giving him a final pat-down.  “I know you can.  But if anything goes wrong, come straight back out.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

Aziraphale stood towards the side, leaving Crowley to face the portal to Heaven.  Angelo was on the other side, his expression one of intense pleading.

Crowley squared his shoulders, faking confidence.  “I’ll be back before you know it,” he said, stepping forwards through the portal.

Crowley was a good actor.  He always had been.  And his skills were about to be put up against the greatest challenge he had ever faced.  He would be aided by the fact that the angels who rarely left Heaven wouldn’t think to be on the lookout for espionage, and the fact that no one would ever in a million years expect a demon might be in Heaven.  But the stakes were high.  There were things bigger than Angelo’s feelings riding on the fate of the Sword of Heaven, including the war and by extension the existence of all Creation. And one wrong move would mean…

He tried not to think about that.

The portal spat him out onto the cloudy surface of the gates to Heaven.  

His first bit of good luck was the fact that the angel in front of the entrance was not the same one who had seen him hacking up blood the last time he had gotten close to the gates.  This one had only seen him from far away and thus would be less likely to recognize him.

The second bit of luck was that a group of angels had just arrived, and the gatekeeper was opening the gate for them.  Crowley put on a casual expression, fanned his wings, and jogged to catch up with them, attaching himself to the tail end of their group.

As he got closer, he could feel the ethereal pressure from the gates growing, pressing on him, but a bubble of disembodied aura pushed outwards to meet it, keeping it off him.  When he was a mere few feet from the gates, he could feel it roiling like lava a few inches away from his body, but he remained unmarred.

Whoever had made this spell had known what they were doing.

“Hey, Petra,” said the angel at the front of the group, waving to the gatekeeper.  She waved back, looking bored until her eyes fell on Crowley.

“Hold on.  You there.”

He stopped in his tracks as the rest of the group passed the gates, leaving him alone with the gatekeeper.

“Yes?”

“What’s your name?”

“Me?  My name’s C—” _Crowley_ was not a very good angel name.  “—Castiel. My name is Castiel.”

It was the first angel name he could think of.  If the gatekeeper had been a field agent, she might have recognized that he had ripped it straight from a TV series that had become popular recently, but she wasn’t, so she didn’t.

She _did_  eye him suspiciously.  “Castiel?”

“Petra, don’t you recognize me?” said Crowley with forced familiarity.  “I mean, I know I haven’t been back in Heaven for an awfully long time, but _geez._ ”

Angels, on the whole, are much more polite than demons and share humans’ tendency to avoid admitting they don’t recognize someone.  And the gatekeeper had no reason to believe he could be anything other than an angel because his demonic aura was wrapped and buried in a shroud of angelic essence, and it was rude to test it too far.  “Oh, Castiel! I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you. It’s been a while, as you said.  Sorry, go ahead in.”

First hurdle passed.

He shuffled into Heaven, trying to hide the fact that he was squinting from the harsh light. He stopped dead a few steps in, overwhelmed by the sight of it, the aching familiarity that was suddenly coming back to him, the memories of events thousands of years ago when he had been a different person entirely.

“Are you all right?” said the gatekeeper back at him.

“Huh?  Fine, sorry, thank you.”  He unsteadily scuttled away, getting out from under her scrutinizing gaze as soon as possible.

The pressure the spell was holding back began to diminish as he put distance between himself and the gate.  But it never went away completely, prickling at him with the ominous reminder of what was waiting for him if the barrier were to be removed.

God’s presence saturated Heaven, and it would not end well for any demon making contact with it.

Dazed, he walked around the gold streets, almost forgetting why he was here, almost forgetting he wasn’t an angel anymore at all.  It was as if he had never even left.

An angel rushed past him, and he recoiled with the sudden resurgence in fear of the dust being rubbed off.  He watched them disappear into the distance, shaking himself and reminding himself what he was supposed to do.

He had better get out of here as soon as he could.

Crowley waved his hand to summon his healing staff, spitting on it and rubbing a bit of infernal soot off it.  He then moved onto the side of the main avenue and flagged down an angel walking by.

“Excuse me,” he said as innocently as he could manage.  “I’m a healer stationed on Earth and it’s been a _very_ long time since I’ve been up here.  Could you help me out? I don’t seem to remember where the infirmary is.”

“Oh,” said the angel, noting his insignia, “you must be here on account of what’s happening with Michael.  You have my sympathies. For what it’s worth, I think this is all that demon’s fault.”

Crowley grit his teeth in a very wide, forced smile.  “The infirmary?”

“Oh, right.  It’s this way.”

Second hurdle passed.  Soon he stood on the steps of the infirmary.  The nostalgia rolled over him even worse than before, because he had worked here before he had fallen.  He stared at the huge insignia on the front of the building, previously Miriam’s, then handed off to Raphael.

He was struck by a strange sense of loneliness, longing for a place he did not want to return to.

He squared his shoulders and marched in.

He still had his staff out, so the angel sitting at the desk in the lobby merely gave him a glance to confirm that he was a healer and therefore belonged here before paying him no further mind, returning to her work at the desk.

Crowley strolled to the other end of the room, walking slowly to disguise the fact that he couldn’t remember the layout of the building and didn’t know where he was going.  He eventually settled on a door and ripped it open.

It was a closet.

He quickly shut it again, sweating.  The receptionist was still absorbed with her work on her desk, so he scuttled over and tried the next one, which led to a hallway that carried him away from that bit of embarrassment.

His priority had to be avoiding Raphael, because the archangel would surely recognize him and he’d have a _lot_ of explaining to do.  And he’d hate to see what might happen if both Gabriel _and_ Raphael were angry with him.

Two pairs of footsteps alerted him to the approach of someone around the bend.  He scrambled, then leapt up onto the ceiling, clinging flat to it just as a pair of angels passed underneath of him, talking to each other in low voices.

One of them had a long brown ponytail and carried herself with newfound confidence.

Victoria.  She was still in the infirmary.  And moving about of her own free will.

They disappeared, voices fading with distance.  Crowley jumped down, then kept on his way.

His memory began to pick up as he traversed the hallway, and his feet carried him towards Raphael’s office.  He hid around the corner for a few minutes until he heard someone else engage Raphael’s assistant.

“Is Raphael in?”

“I’m afraid he’s with Michael at the moment, but he should be back soon.”

Perfect.  Crowley tiptoed away, then found a place where he could haul himself up into the ceiling again and keep an eye on Raphael’s office.  He dared not change shape for fear of how the dust might settle on him, or _off_ him, but he was still able to hide himself without much trouble.

Raphael appeared eventually, conferred with his assistant for a moment, and disappeared into his office.  Crowley slowly lowered himself down, staying out of sight, and headed in the direction from which Raphael had appeared.

He knew the general direction since Raphael had just come from seeing Michael, but it still took a bit of searching to find the second archangel. Crowley found Michael when he peeked into the window of one of the patient rooms and saw him slumped against the wall.  His chestnut hair was in disarray at his shoulders, his facial expression was vacant, and his hollow eyes stared unseeingly at Crowley’s face in the window. He looked a lot smaller without his armor on.

Third hurdle passed.  

Crowley suddenly realized that Michael was sedated...and that it might be a wise idea to grab enough from stockroom to _keep_ him sedated if they needed to, because Crowley had no idea what he might be like when he woke up.

All that remained now was to find the stockroom, and get Michael from here past the gates.  That would be a bit more difficult, but he knew how he could do it if his luck held out, and he could probably combine those two missions if he were clever about it.

His hand fell to the knob of the room.  Locked.

No big surprise. The first step would just have to be finding a key. He turned around to set off.

Only to see that an angel had been standing behind him, staring at him like she’d seen a ghost.

“Cr…Cralael?”

Crowley’s eyes blew wide.  “R-Ramial?”

Ramial, the angel he had thought about seeing when getting back into Heaven had been a possibility.  An angel he had been close with before falling.  The angel who had cared for him so much.  A friend he had not seen in thousands of years, since a lifetime ago when he was a different person.  There she was, right in front of him.

Saying her name had been a mistake.  The way to go to keep the plan in motion would have been to act confused and pretend he didn’t know her.  She might have chalked the experience up to an overactive imagination.  But he had been so shocked, so rattled by the sudden nostalgia, the ache of seeing her, and there was no way to deny he knew her when he had just confirmed it.

She stepped forwards incredulously.  “You…It’s you…How…?  You can’t be here!”

She reached a hand out and touched him.  The dust on his skin clung to her hand.  He could feel the wall between him and the ethereal pressure filling the place thinning.  Crowley jerked his arm away from her and frantically swiped his hand over the space where she had touched him, rearranging the dust to cover the hole. The heat that had begun to radiate onto him faded.

“Ramial,” he begged.  “Please, don’t tell anyone.”

“It’s really you.  I can’t believe this.  You can’t be here.”

“ _Please_ —”

“Raphael!” Ramial shouted, pivoting and turning back towards the hallway to the archangel’s office.  “Raphael! Come quickly!”

Game over.  There was no recovering from this. Time to get out while he was still in one piece.

He darted away, but a hand grabbed his arm and yanked him back.

“Don’t go,” said Ramial.

Crowley’s horrified gaze rested on the spot where Ramial had grabbed him. All the dust had _poof_ ed off his skin with the force of her grab, and the only thing between him and the roiling atmosphere was her hand.

“Ramial,” he said.  “Oh s-somebody, Ramial, don’t….”

“Come on,” she said.  “Come on.”

She pulled him gently towards the office.  It was so tempting to just let her take him back and let Raphael do what he may.

His skin was beginning to redden at the edges of her grasp.  “Ramial.”

She said his name again.

_Get out while you’re still in one piece, you foolish demon._

He placed his hand on top of hers, wrenching her off.

The lava poured in.  His skin burned and melted, hot pain lancing through his arm down to the bone, a gaping hole opening up and pouring blood.  He could not stifle the scream that exploded out of him, because it was the worst thing he had ever felt, worse by far than anything even Satan had been able to think up to torture him.

He stumbled backwards away from Ramial, frantically shuffling dust from elsewhere on his body back onto his arm.  The hole in the angel dust coating oozed closed, the grey powder saturating with his blood.

“Oh my God,” said Ramial, drawing nearer to him.  “Oh my—”

Crowley fled as fast as his legs could carry him, hand clamped over the wound, trying to staunch the blood dripping from him and leaving a trail on the tile.  He could hear Ramial’s voice calling his name and Raphael’s alternatively, but it was growing fainter as it moved in the direction of Raphael rather than him.

He burst through the door into the lobby. The receptionist looked at him with wide eyes.

“Are you okay?” she said.  “You should go back in.”

Crowley ignored her, gritting his teeth, trying to walk instead of run so as not to alarm her. Pain surged through his arm with every step.  The blood continued to fall onto the tile.

“Hey,” said the receptionist, coming out from behind the desk.

“Don’t touch me,” he said.  The last part of _touch_ drew out to a long, stuttering hiss, and she stopped in her tracks.

That was fine with him.  He seized the opportunity to exit the infirmary, bleeding onto the steps as he hurried out.

Panic began to overwhelm him.  He couldn’t remember in which direction the exit lay.  If he flew up to try and find it, it would draw attention to himself.

“Hey, hey,” said an angel passing by, trying to put themselves into his path. “That looks bad, I don’t think you should be leaving—”

“Get the _fuck_ out of my way,” he growled, darting around the angel, who was so startled they stood out of his way.

“Hey,” they said as he moved away.  “Hey!”

He broke into a run.  He could hear voices raised behind him.

He glanced behind him, then looked up at the sky.

A figure hovered in the heavenly light, one with enormous metallic silver wings.

Uriel.  The keeper of the ethereal aura.  The archangel responsible for cutting demons off from God’s presence.  If anyone would be able to sense him in Heaven, it would have been her.  And if anyone would have been super, ultra, mega pissed about him violating Heaven’s strict “no demon” policy, it would have been her.

She was looking right at him.

He cursed, doing double time, spreading his wings.  He sprinted with all his might, not daring to look behind him.  Passersby leapt to get out of his way.  He managed to scramble in the right direction.  He simply leapt over the gate, flapping awkwardly, crashing clumsily on the other side.  He spattered blood all over the clouds as he landed.  His vision was beginning to blur.

He could hear the gatekeeper’s voice exclaiming as he righted himself and staggered forwards. The last bit of luck turned out to be good luck: the portal was still open. He threw himself through it.

He thumped heavily onto the floor of his Mayfair flat, panting.  “Oh my!” said Aziraphale’s voice from somewhere in the room.  

“Close it!” he yelled.  “Close it! Now!”

Aziraphale stomped on the chalk circle on the floor, knocking the incense over and smearing the lines.  The portal zipped shut, leaving them in silence except for Crowley’s heavy breathing.

Aziraphale fell to the floor to help Crowley up.  “Are you all right? What happened? Where’s Michael?”

“I fucked up,” he said, his hand tightening on his wound.  “I couldn’t do it.  I fucked up.”

Aziraphale drew Crowley’s hand away from the wound.  “Some of the dust rubbed off?”

The demon winced, sucked in a sharp breath, and clamped his hand back onto the wound.  “Yeah. Fuck _._ ”

“No,” said Angelo.  “No no no.”

“ _Fuck_.  Mother _fucker_.”

“You couldn’t have,” said Angelo numbly.  “You couldn’t have failed.”

“Well, I _did_ ,” Crowley said through gritted teeth.

Angelo hid his face in his hands and circled around the couch aimlessly.

Taking Crowley’s good arm, Aziraphale helped him up.  Crowley made strangulated sounds of pain as he stood, trying out every curse in his dictionary.

“You didn’t really try!” said Angelo.  “You could have done it!”

“You didn’t just say that.  You _did not_ just—” Crowley said.

“You never wanted to get him out!”

“Angelo, what the fuck?” Crowley hissed.

“He’s going to fall and you won’t help him!” Angelo yelled.  “You said you could do it!  You said you would! You always find a way somehow!  For yourself, but not for him, apparently!”

“Get out!” Crowley yelled at him.

“No!  You can’t manipulate me the same way you—”

Crowley manifested a set of fangs, pushed Aziraphale aside, and lunged at Angelo, sinking his teeth into his shoulder.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale gasped, trying to pull him off the smaller angel.

Crowley hissed, blood flying from his mouth as he spoke, now looking very much like the snake he really was.  “Get out! I risssk my life to make you happy and you turn on me jussst like everyone elssse!  I can’t look at you!  Get the fuck out!”

Angelo stood where he was, frozen.  Aziraphale eventually had to open the door and escort him out.

The door slammed shut behind the two of them, the iron walls of the fortress zooming back up.

Aziraphale knocked on it to try and gain re-entry, but it stayed shut.

“Why did you do that?” said Aziraphale, pushing Angelo into the wall. “Why did you have to go and do that?”

Angelo’s face was turning to one of despair.  “I don’t know. I’m sorry. I’m so anxious for Michael. I just got angry. I don’t know why I…”

“I hope you’re happy,” Aziraphale flared.  He balled his fists.  “You…”

“I’m sorry.”

“That’s not good enough!  Look what you’ve done!”

The two angels stood there in the hallway.  Angelo was still bleeding from the bite on his shoulder, which Aziraphale did not attempt to help him with.

Aziraphale sighed.  “Come on.  Let’s leave Crowley on his own and go back to the bookshop.  He doesn’t want us here.”  

* * *

The Metatron stumbled out of the throne room trailing blood, willing the doors to shut behind them. They took a moment to examine their body, wrenching limbs back into place, popping an arm back into its socket.  They clamped a hand over the gash running down their face, blood squishing out from between their fingers.

They limped out of the antechamber into the open atmosphere of Heaven.  Uriel dove upon them in an instant.  “Metatron, you’re finally finished.  I need to tell you something.  I felt something in Heaven today.  A demon.  It was a few hours ago, but you’ve been in the throne room this whole time.”

Metatron spat blood at her feet.  “I do not care.”

Uriel watched the Metatron with disbelief as they hobbled away, dragging a leg, using a wing as a crutch. She sputtered, then jogged to catch up to them.  “What do you mean you don’t care?”

“I mean _I don’t care_.”

“A _demon_. In _Heaven._ It was the worst thing I have ever felt.”

“Did the demon do anything?”

“What?”

“What did it do while it was in here?”

“Well, nothing as far as I can tell.  But this represents a grave violation of Heaven’s integrity—”

“ _I do not care,_ ” said Metatron.  They removed a hand, revealing they were missing an eye. “I’ve never cared about any of the rules you get such elation in enforcing, Uriel, I do not care about your uptight, hypersensitive obsession with purity and everything’s proper place. I don’t care.  You’re not the one I need to talk to.  Where is Gabriel?”

Uriel crossed her arms. “I don’t know.  You should go to the infirmary, though.”

“I am not going to the _infirmary_ ,” the Metatron snapped through bloodstained teeth.  “I would rather trek all the way down to Hell and ask Maltha to treat me than go to Raphael for help.   _Go find Gabriel.”_

Uriel sneered at the Metatron, then walked off.

They stood where they were, brushing off passersby that tried to help them. Gabriel showed up soon enough and immediately tried to convince Metatron to go to the infirmary as well.

“Forget about me,” the Metatron chimed.  “The situation has reached a critical point.  We need the war now.”

Gabriel wrung his hands. “ _Now_ now, or like…”

“Today.  Within the next few hours.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

The Metatron could see the gears in Gabriel’s head desperately turning.  Then, without saying a word, Gabriel turned and motored towards the infirmary.

* * *

It was Ramial who alerted Raphael to the situation again, and as soon as the words _Gabriel is in the infirmary_ left her lips, Raphael shot out of his office as though abandoning a burning building.

“Go get Victoria,” he said, waving her away.

He hustled to where he knew Gabriel was going to be, and found him exactly where predicted: the door to Michael’s room was open, and Gabriel had Michael pulled up by his collar, bracing him on the wall.  A cluster of healers around him were desperately trying to get him to stop whatever he was doing, to no success.

Raphael waded through them to push his way to Gabriel.  “Gabriel, what are you—”

“What did you do to him?” Gabriel demanded.  “He can’t hear me.”

“He’s on sedatives,” said Raphael.  “He was in pain. I insist you put him down.”

“Of course he’s going to be in pain, you weak-kneed moron,” said Gabriel.  “Dying is painful.  He can deal with it.”

Distressed, Raphael tried to pull Gabriel’s arm off Michael, but Gabriel elbowed him away, pushing all the healers out of the way to drag Michael into the doorway.  He slapped Michael’s face.  “Wake up.”

“I insist you stop that right now.”

“You said you gave him sedatives?” said Gabriel, dragging Michael out into the hallway.  “If I remove them from his corporation, will he wake up?”

Raphael flushed with panic. “As Michael’s healthcare provider I must insist that you don’t—”

Gabriel pushed Raphael away as he tried to pull Gabriel off Michael, and Raphael reeled backwards and landed on his arse.  

“Someone go get more tranquilizers,” he said the nurses who tried to help him back up.  When they did not respond, he waved a hand frantically. “Someone go get more!”

Three of them dashed away. Gabriel knelt by Michael with a hand on his forehead.  Raphael stood by wringing his hands.  “Gabriel, that really is not a good idea.  I insist you stop.”

Michael’s eyes drifted up to Gabriel, struggling to focus. “Gabriel?” he said muzzily.

“Someone get those tranquilizers in here!” Raphael yelled.

“Michael,” said Gabriel. “Can you hear me?”

Michael squinted, blinking quickly, eyes roving the ceiling above him.  “What’s…?”

“Michael, listen to me,” said Gabriel.  “Maltha killed Angelo.”

“Stop it!” Raphael yelled, trying to remove Gabriel again, but Gabriel elbow him away again.

“What?” said Michael.

“Angelo is dead. Maltha killed him.  And she’ll kill more if you don’t do something.”

“That’s not true,” Raphael tried.  “That’s a lie.”

“What?” said Michael again, now sounding more disbelieving than confused.

“You’re distressing him!” said Raphael. “Get off him!”

Heavy footsteps could be heard thumping towards them quickly.

“That can’t be true,” Michael said, voice quavering.  “Angelo is dead?”

“Yes.”

“Hey Gabriel!” shouted a voice.

Gabriel looked up just in time to get a face full of Victoria’s boot.

Victoria barreled onto the scene with wings drawn open, face twisted into fury, colliding with Gabriel full force and slamming him into the opposing wall.  “You don’t touch him, not one more time, you hear me?”

Gabriel scrabbled to his feet, hand on his broken nose.  “You!” he exploded, probably consumed with exactly how much her promotion had backfired on him.

She planted herself between Gabriel and where Raphael was kneeling by Michael.  “Me.”

“You dare attack me? You would question the will of Heaven?”

Victoria crossed her arms. “Yeah.”

Gabriel shouted, “You stupid grunt!  You are a _warrior!_  Your job is to follow directions!  You’re not supposed to think for yourself!”

“Shouldn’t have given me a brain, then. Now get lost.”

“Stand down.  Get out of the way.”

Victoria stood planted firmly.  Enraged, Gabriel wobbled away from her and out of the hallway towards the infirmary exit.

Victoria turned around and knelt by Raphael.  Michael’s eyes flashed to her face unsteadily.

“Hey, Michael,” said Victoria, taking his hand.  “How are you feeling?”

Michael’s breaths were shallow and fast.  “Been better.”

“Don’t worry, we’ll make it better,” said Raphael.

“Is Angelo okay?”

“Yes, Angelo’s all right,” said Raphael.  “I treated him.  He survived. He’s fine.”

Michael closed his eyes. Raphael took his other hand.

“Hey Raphael?” said Michael, sweating.

“Yes, what is it?” said Raphael, leaning in.

“Is it okay now for me to admit I don’t like Gabriel?”

Raphael gave a small laugh. “Yes, brother, we won’t tell anyone.”

A nurse finally skittered back into the room carrying a needle.  Raphael stood to take it off him.

“Victoria?” said Michael, reaching up feebly and putting a hand on her shoulder.

Victoria squeezed his hand. “I’m here.  What is it?”

“I’m glad you came by to see me,” said Michael.  “I love you, little sister.”

Victoria put a hand over her mouth and rubbed the back of his hand with hers.

Michael’s hand clamped on her arm, ripped her shoulder out of its socket, and tossed her into the wall.

“Don’t let him out!” Raphael shouted as the hallway erupted into chaos.  “Don’t let him out of the infirmary!”

Gasping in pain, Victoria struggled to right herself and saw that Michael had advanced on Raphael, trampling him to the ground with such force that bones audibly broke. She staggered over and tried to grab ahold of Michael, but a huge white wing erupted from his back and slammed into her midsection, knocking the wind out of her and sending her back down.

“Grab the needle!” Raphael shouted.  “Someone grab it!  It goes in his arm!”

Michael left Raphael and began to move away.  Raphael summoned all his energy and leapt forwards, dragging Michael down. Victoria forced herself to her feet, right arm hanging uselessly, and threw herself on top of him.

“Don’t let him out!” Raphael repeated.  “We’ll never get ahold of him again!”

One of the nurses tried to approach, but could not get a clear path to his arm.

Michael, sneering and shouting wordlessly, kicked Raphael off him and shook Victoria loose, grabbing her and pinning her against the wall.

Victoria scrabbled and tried to curse as his hands came up and squeezed her windpipe.

Raphael appeared beside him, plunging the needle into his arm.

It took a few seconds to kick in, during which Victoria prayed fervently for her vertebrae to remain intact.  But gradually, Michael’s grip loosened, his face went slack, and his eyes went unfocused.

Raphael slid his arms up around Michael’s chest and leaned him off Victoria.  Victoria slid away and sat on the floor.

“Oh my god,” Victoria panted.

“Holy shit,” Raphael said, breathing in great gasps.

“Oh, God,” said Victoria, palming her dislocated shoulder. “Looks like I’m already in the right place.”

The two archangels looked at each other and let out shallow laughter.  The lesser healers did not think it was very funny and swarmed the two of them.

* * *

Gabriel found Uriel in the antechamber of the hall in which the Book of Life was kept.  Which was perfect for what he was about to say.

“Uriel,” said Gabriel. “I need you to do something.”

Uriel turned, fanning her wings.  “And what’s that, Gabriel?”

“Victoria must fall.”

Uriel snorted.  Which was the exact reaction Gabriel had been afraid of.

“This is critical. She openly admitted to questioning the will of God.”

“There must be a tribunal.”

“We don’t have time for that.”

“I cannot tear out anyone’s page from the Book of Life without there being a tribunal during which all six archangels find her guilty first.”

“We can’t have a tribunal. Michael can’t vote.”

“Then I guess nobody will be falling.”

“Uriel, this is life and death!”

“The rules are life and death!” Uriel shot back.  “Michael chose to disregard his proper role, and look where it got him.”

“This is different.”

“It’s bad enough you forced me to write that letter about having the war without an antichrist.  Isn’t that enough lawlessness for you?  What good came of that?  Are we any closer?”

“This will be the last time. I promise.”

“The Metatron chose to overstep _his_ authority and look where it got him.   _You_ chose to break the rules, and look where it got _you._ If _I_ must be the last remaining archangel that is obedient to our Heavenly Father and the natural order, even as the entire universe collapses in flame and ash around me, then so be it.  Nobody falls without a tribunal. That is the rule.”

“Forget the rule! This is more important than the rules!”

“Who do you think you are?” Uriel said tightly. “More important than the rules?  If I went around altering the Book of Life and casting angels out of Heaven just because I _feel_ like it, or just because you _asked_ me to, what’s to stop me from becoming like God?  Is that what you want?  For us to disregard His wishes and act on our own?  Have you already forgotten what happened to Camael?”

“Uriel, this is _different_.”

“Absurd!  He made things to function a certain way for a reason. That is the natural order of things. Nothing good ever comes from breaking it.  Nobody falls without a tribunal.  That is the _rule._  Now don’t bother me about it again.”

Uriel brushed past him and headed towards the door.  She turned back to snipe at him, “What happened to your face?  It’s hideous.  You should go to the infirmary.”

She took her leave. Gabriel palmed his broken nose.

Huffing, desperation mounting, hope dwindling, Gabriel exited and made his way back to the courtyard outside the Throne.  The Metatron hadn’t moved at all except to seat itself, broken wings stretched out.

The Metatron, noting Gabriel’s fresh wounds, murmured, “Mmm, I take it whatever you attempted didn’t work.”

“Metatron,” said Gabriel. “You need to alter the Book of Life and cast Victoria out.”

“Replace her already?” Metatron jingled.  “We’ve only had her for a day.”

“She did not behave as predicted.  She needs to be moved out of the way.”

The Metatron hauled themselves to their feet.  “I cannot alter the Book of Life.”

“Forget the rules, Metatron! You said yourself this is critical!”

“It’s not a _rule_ I can break,” Metatron snapped.  “I _physically cannot_ cast Victoria out.  Uriel is the only one who can do that.  I can read and touch the Book of Life, but I cannot alter it, and I cannot change anyone’s aura and make them a demon or forcibly expel them from Heaven. That is _entirely_ Uriel’s job.  She is the only aural class angel.”

“Oh.”

The two of them stood there looking at each other.  A fresh drop of blood rolled down Metatron’s cheek.

Gabriel said, “Then… now what?”


	9. ...and the Fall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On tumblr at http://not-a-space-alien.tumblr.com/post/163428673355/falling-hazard-part-9-and-the-fall

 

 

* * *

Uriel burst out of her office wild-eyed, only to see a group of angels had been loitering outside waiting for her.

“What are you lot doing?” she snapped.

An angel at the front hesitantly saluted her.  “Uriel, ma’am, we…wanted to ask about—”

“About what?”

“About the change—”

“It’s not your job to ask questions!”

“We wanted to see if everything all right,” tried a second angel.  “Some of us sensed—”

“Shut the fuck up!” Uriel screamed, and all the angels flinched back. “It’s not your job!  Get out of here!  Get out!”

She pushed through the crowd without waiting to see if they obeyed her. She was pissed.  She was not a warrior, but she felt herself clenching her fists, ready to hurt someone.

* * *

Raphael was suspicious of the summons, of course. But he left Victoria guarding Michael, positive that if the other archangels wanted to try something, they would have summoned _her_ away, not him, after what had happened last time.

He cautiously entered the antechamber to see that Uriel, Gabriel, and Metatron were seated at their seats at the bench.  The fact that they were sitting in the seats they occupied only to pass judgement in a tribunal was not lost on Raphael.  Metatron had a black eye layered over older injuries. Gabriel still had bruises from where Victoria had kicked him. And Uriel, of all people, had _two_ black eyes.

“Were you three…fighting?” said Raphael.

Metatron folded their hands.  “All God’s servants are perfectly in accord with His will,” they rattled.  “We have no reason to fight.”

Gabriel opened his mouth to say something. The Metatron elbowed him very hard.

“I’ll heal Metatron first,” said Raphael.  “Your injuries are the worst.  What happened to you?”

“You were not called here to heal anyone,” said the Metatron.  “Where is Victoria?”

“She’s in the infirmary.  I’m not leaving Michael alone after what Gabriel did.”

“Go _get_ her,” Metatron snapped.

Raphael turned and sprinted out, seeming to understand what was happening.

There was silence for a few moments while he was gone.  “This is a bad idea,” muttered Gabriel.

“This is not written in the Ineffable Plan,” whispered Uriel.

“Well, does anyone have a _better_ idea? _”_ Metatron said. “In light of recent _developments_?”

Uriel crossed her arms.  Gabriel tapped the table.

“Either let me call the shots,” said Metatron, “or off me and be done with it once and for all.  Either is fine with me, since it’d mean I wouldn’t have to work with either of you again.”

Raphael came back with the new archangel in tow.  “Excellent, now we can begin,” said Metatron.  “God has...uh…declared that the War is no longer His will.”

Raphael and Victoria looked at the Metatron blankly.

“What?” said Victoria.

“Tell them the truth,” said Uriel, “so they understand the full gravity of what they have done, and can feel properly—Ah!”

Metatron stomped on her foot under the table to cut her off.  

“You heard me,” the Metatron rang.  “The Voice of God declares that the war with Hell for Heaven’s glory is hereby suspended indefinitely.”

“Really?” said Victoria.  “Why?”

“And therefore,” the Metatron continued, “since the war is off the table, Michael’s bloodlust has the potential to cause far more damage than originally laid out in the Ineffable Plan, with nothing to control him, and he will have no outlet for his Wrath.  It is in our interest to neutralize him.  Casting him out of Heaven will at least ensure the safety of the Heavenly Kingdom, since he will be barred from entering the gates.  We find ourselves more amenable to your suggestion as to his fate.”

“Oh,” said Raphael, perking up.  “Okay.  Great.”

“I’m not,” muttered Uriel.

“We _all_ find ourselves more amenable to the suggestion,” Metatron reiterated.

“I’m not.”

“ _We are more amenable._ ”

“Michael would be better off dead than in Hell’s clutches,” Uriel said with a sneer.

“Would _he_ be better off?” said Raphael. “Or would _you_ be better off?”

Uriel stood, her lip peeling back in an angry smile.  “Has anyone ever told you that you’re completely insufferable, Raphael?”

“If Michael managed to get out and start the War without permission, it would run contrary to God’s will,” said Metatron.

“Your will,” said Uriel tightly.

“ _God’s_ will,” the Metatron said dangerously.

“What difference does it make to you, Uriel?” Victoria shouted.  “You never leave Heaven!  It wouldn’t matter to you if he’s dead or just gone!  Do you have to be as cruel as you possibly can all the time?”

“I don’t have to listen a _warrior_ lecturing me about my behaviour,” Uriel said.  “You’d do well to only speak when spoken to.”

“No, you listen here, I’m not fucking done,” Victoria said, stepping in front of the bench, but Uriel kept talking:

“The fact that a pair of _powers_ has decided the course of the war is completely inappropriate!  Does nobody have any regard for the Order anymore?”

“We are _archangels!_ ” Victoria shouted. “Raphael is an _archangel._  I am an _archangel._   _Michael is an archangel._ The same as you.”

“You are only an archangel because I made you that way!” Uriel snarled. “And you are in a clerical position, so demoting you back down would correct a bit of tampering with protocol, you utter insolent half-wit! I’ll be right back.”

Uriel slipped out from behind the bench, making her way towards the Book of Life.

Victoria drew her sword.

“Stop, stop, everybody calm down, please,” said Raphael.

“I don’t have to listen you or anybody,” said Uriel.  “Get out of the way.”

Metatron stood and snapped their wings open. “Uriel.   _Sit down._ ”

Uriel whirled around, looking at Metatron with hatred.

“We cannot afford to lose yet another archangel right now.”

“We can afford to lose _her._ ”

“The Voice of God commands you.  Step away from the Book of Life, and sit down at the bench.”

Uriel struggled with herself, briefly but visibly.  Then, she scuttled back over and reseated herself.

Metatron lowered themselves back down as well.  “Now then,” they said, sounding incredibly fed up.  “I am calling a tribunal to judge the fate of the archangel Michael.”

“I don’t understand,” said Raphael.  “Have we missed something?  Has something changed?”

“This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” Gabriel said. “Don’t complain.”

“Five of us are gathered here,” said Metatron.  “And the sixth is the spirit to be judged, who will be absent for this meeting.  We need the seventh.”

“Good luck,” Gabriel scoffed.

Metatron materialized a piece of parchment, wrote a summons, and sent it off into the void.

The seconds ticked by.  Nothing happened.

Metatron stood.  “Azrael.”

The call echoed in the empty hall.

“Azrael, you cannot refuse direct summons by the Voice of God.  Come here.”

A figure shrouded in darkness appeared at the edge of the hall, black tendrils of shadow curling around it as it broke the heavenly light.  As it drew closer, it resolved into a skeletal shape, wings made of stars and galaxies.  The visor of a black motorcycle helmet shined their gazes back at them.

WHY DO YOU INSIST ON DOING THIS? said Death’s booming bass voice.  YOU SHOULD KNOW BY NOW I HAVE NO INTEREST IN THE PROCEEDINGS OF HEAVEN.

“You have duties to Heaven, Azrael,” said Metatron.  “You can only shirk so many of them.”

IN THE SECONDS WE HAVE BEEN SPEAKING, ALREADY TEN HUMANS HAVE DIED AND ARE WAITING FOR ME TO ESCORT THEM.

“Then we shall make it quick, dear brother, so you can take leave of us yet again, since you so obviously can’t stand to be around us for even a single second,” said Metatron.

THEN I’M GLAD WE UNDERSTAND EACH OTHER.  LET’S GET ON WITH IT.

Metatron rolled out a long piece of parchment.  “We hereby declare this gathering of Archangels for the purpose of the following item: The fate of our seventh member, the archangel Michael.”

THIS AGAIN? said Death.

“The Archangel Metatron declares their intent that Michael should fall.”

As Metatron spoke, the seal of the Voice of God appeared on the paper. “Raphael?”

“Fall.”

The sign of the approval of the Bearer of Divine Healing appeared on the scroll.

“The Archangel Raphael declares his intent that Michael should fall. Victoria?”

“Fall.”

The approval of the first Overseer of Divine Affairs on Earth appeared on the scroll.

“The Archangel Victoria declares her intent that Michael should fall.  Uriel?”

Uriel grew red with anger.

“Uriel,” said Metatron in a warning tone.

“Fall,” spat Uriel.

The seal of the Keeper of the Divine Aura appeared on the scroll.

“The Archangel Uriel declares her intent that Michael should fall.  Gabriel?”

“Fall.  See you all in Hell.”

“The Archangel Gabriel declares his intent that Michael should fall.”

The second approval of Overseer of Divine Affairs on Earth appeared.

“Azrael?”

WHAT HAS MICHAEL DONE?  WHAT IS HE CHARGED WITH?  YOU’VE ALREADY DONE THIS WITH CAMAEL, AND YOU SUMMON ME AGAIN JUST TO DO IT WITH MICHAEL? Death’s voice held the grim amusement of someone watching a spectacle in which they have nothing invested fly off the rails.

“We know you don’t care, Azrael,” said Metatron.  “So we won’t bore you.  Suffice to say he has committed a great number of unforgivable crimes.”

Death slid his helmet visor up, exposing two hollow eye sockets and a bleached, permanent smile.  AS I RECALL, GOD DECREED THAT MICHAEL COULD NEVER FALL UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES, AS HE WAS VITAL TO THE INEFFABLE PLAN TO DESTROY HELL ONCE AND FOR ALL, CORRECT?

“That’s not important,” Metatron chimed.  “Just give us your _yes_ and be on your way.”

IT SEEMS TO ME THE ONLY ONE WHO HAS COMMITTED ANY CRIME IS THE ONE WHO BROUGHT A HUMAN INTO HEAVEN BEFORE HER APPOINTED TIME WITH ME.

The skeletal grin was fixed on Gabriel.  Gabriel, with growing panic, pointed a finger at Metatron.  “Metatron is the one who said we needed the war at any cost.  I didn’t see anyone _else_ stepping up to make it happen.”

MM-HMM, said Death.  YOU DO REALIZE I HAVE GROUNDS TO PRESS A CASE OF MY OWN IF I WISHED IT?

“We all know you don’t wish it, Azrael,” said Metatron.  “Just declare your decision so you can leave.”

Death’s leather jacket crinkled as he crossed his arms.  I SEE NO REASON WHY I SHOULD HAVE ANY OPINION AT ALL ON THE EVENTS UNFOLDING RIGHT NOW.

“How many humans have died now?” said Raphael.

FORTY-SEVEN.  THEY ARE ALL STARTING TO PANIC.

“Well, then,” reverberated the Metatron.  “Just give us a _yes_ , and you can go see to them.”

FINE, said Death.  IF IT WILL MAKE YOU HAPPY.  I VOTE THAT MICHAEL SHOULD FALL.

“The Archangel Azrael declares his intent that Michael should fall.”

The seal of the head of the Foundation angels appeared on the scroll, bringing the number up to a full six.

“Then it is done,” said Raphael.  “I’ll begin the preparations.”

“ _Uriel_ will begin the preparations,” Metatron said.  “There is still a proper way to do things.”

A PROPER WAY, said Death, with that same amused tone.  He turned to lope back towards the exit.  I HAVE A FEELING I’LL BE SEEING YOU ALL AGAIN VERY SOON. UNTIL THEN.

And with that, he was gone, which left the antechamber a little brighter. In his wake, Metatron stood holding the scroll that declared Michael’s sentence to fall with six approvals written on it.

* * *

Angelo seemed inordinately upset that Crowley had bitten him.  He kept muttering about how he had “done it again,” and cried about Michael with an intensified frequency.  Aziraphale left him in the downstairs of the bookshop to go upstairs and flop onto his bed for a nap.

It had become his go-to activity for when he was extremely frustrated and there was nothing for him to do.

His short rest ended up turning into him sleeping for a full night.  He awoke when the sun began to creep though his blinds.  He stretched and realized with distaste that he had forgotten to check his inbox before nodding off.

He padded over to the desk and picked up a letter from Botis from the top.

_TO AZIRAPHALE,_

_KYLETH HAS GONE MISSING.  HER ABSENCE HAS UPSET ME GREATLY.  I FEAR HEAVEN HAS FINALLY TAKEN HER TO TASK FOR REFUSING GABRIEL’S ORDERS.  DO YOU KNOW OF ANY ANGELS WITH BLACK WINGS WHO HOLD LOYALTY TO GABRIEL, WHO MIGHT HAVE BEEN SENT TO PUNISH HER?_

_-BOTIS_

Aziraphale set that letter aside without answering it, to see that the second letter was from Oryss reporting that Olivia had likewise gone missing.

Underneath of that was a letter from Raphael, without a seal:

_Aziraphale,_

_Please ask Crowley not to do that again._

_-The Archangel Raphael_

Damn.  So Raphael knew it had been Crowley, then.  Grimacing, Aziraphale set it aside and picked up the next letter, which had Uriel’s seal on it.

_To Aziraphale,_

_I don’t know what that demon of yours did or how it did it, but it defiled the Heavenly Kingdom with its presence. It was the most vile, reprehensible thing I have felt in a long, long time.  It shook me to my core.  Do not let any infernal creature, no matter how superficially lovely to your eyes or how wily its words to your ears, within such a distance to our Heavenly Father again.  If by some chance you speak with that demon again, tell it that if I ever catch it I will personally see to its relocation to the lake of fire before judgement day._

_-The Archangel Uriel_

Aziraphale bit his lip and folded it back up, as though it would make the message go away.

The remainder of the letters were from his demons, and he assumed they would all be panicking and those who hadn’t already said their angels were missing would be doing so now.  He didn’t have the energy to sort through them all.  He just sat behind his desk, not answering any of them.

His phone beeped, indicating he had gotten a text message. He abandoned the desk and plucked it off the nightstand.

It was from Crowley.   _Please come over when you get this._

Good that it seemed less urgent than the last time he had texted with a plea to come over, but Aziraphale still snapped his phone shut and prepared to leave immediately.

He came down the stairs to find that Angelo was still there, huddled on the couch watching some melodramatic program on the telly.

“Aziraphale,” said Angelo foggily.  “Is this real?”

“What?” said Aziraphale, slipping into his shoes.

“This story on the box.  Is this something that actually happened? Or is it a lie?”

Aziraphale turned the TV off with a wave of his hand.  “We’re going over to Crowley’s.”

“I don’t think I should go,” said Angelo.  “I really messed up.”

“You certainly are going.  You’re going to apologise.”

“Oh. All right.”

They scooted over to Crowley’s flat and knocked. Aziraphale half expected to open the door on an angry Crowley lambasting him for bringing Angelo back over and locking him out for another day, but the door opened of its own accord onto empty air.

“Crowley?” said Aziraphale, peeking in cautiously.  “We’re back. Angelo is going to apologise to you. Don’t worry.”

When he stepped in fully, he saw Crowley sitting shame-facedly on the couch, his right arm in a sling.  Even through the bandages, Aziraphale could see the injury was much worse than it had been yesterday.

“Good Heavens,” said Aziraphale, drawing closer and gingerly touching the sling. “Are you all right? What happened?”

The injury had been localized to a spot on his forearm the last time Aziraphale had seen it, but today there was rotten flesh extending down to his hand, which was wrapped up tightly, and festering scales of red and brown spreading up his bicep.

“I tried to treat it,” Crowley said.  “Nothing worked.  It’s getting worse.  I’ve never seen an injury like this before.  It’s like a burn from holy water.  I don’t know how to treat that.  I don’t know if it’s going to stop spreading…Aziraphale, I…I need help.”

“Help,” said Aziraphale.  “Of course. We’ll get you help.”

Crowley paled.  “From whom?”

Aziraphale’s first reaction was to say Raphael, but that might not be a good idea considering how Crowley had gotten the injury in the first place.  He hadn’t seemed particularly angry in his letter, but it was easier to hide your emotions on paper, and it was becoming difficult to tell who in Heaven it was safe to trust.  And Raphael had already shown he was unwilling to either come down to Earth or extend himself for Crowley’s sake, and approaching Heaven after Uriel’s message could be a grave mistake.

That left Maltha.  Who kept denying knowledge of everything she by all rights should know about, kidnapping angels, and telling them not to come down because it wasn’t safe.

Aziraphale put his hand on Crowley’s back.  “Who would you like, Crowley?”

He thought for a few moments. “Maltha,” he said.

“I’ll make it happen,” said Aziraphale, giving him what he hoped was a reassuring rub.

He moved into the next room to find the writing utensils. He was pleased to hear Crowley and Angelo talking in low voices, apparently making up.

He scribbled out,

_Maltha,_

_Crowley has sustained a serious injury and cannot treat it himself.  We beg of your help.  We need your healing expertise._

_-Aziraphale._

He sent it off.  The reply came in a few minutes later.

_Aziraphale,_

_I am unable to come up from Hell at this time.  Do not come down here as I cannot guarantee your safety.  Crowley will have to find someone else._

_-Maltha._

Aziraphale grit his teeth.  “Crowley, where is your phone?”

“On the end table there.  Why?”

“It has a better camera than mine.”  

A few minutes later Aziraphale pasted a printout of a picture of Crowley’s injury onto another piece of parchment, folded it up, and sent it down to Hell. The reply was delayed this time, but when it came:

_Aziraphale,_

_I will send an escort up to meet you immediately.  WAIT IN LIMBO FOR THEM. DO NOT GO FURTHER THAN LIMBO BY YOURSELVES.  Come down before Crowley’s injury gets any worse than you’ve already let it by your negligence._

_-Maltha_

* * *

Crowley had healed Angelo’s bite, which was more generous than Angelo had expected. He stayed with Aziraphale and Crowley for a few more minutes, then left when they started their preparations for making their excursion into Hell.

Angelo had no desire whatsoever to see _that_ horrid place again unless he was at Michael’s side.

So he wished them luck and bid them farewell, beating his wings to get back into Heaven.  He had an idea now of what he needed to do.

He had to be brave.

It was pathetic, that a demon could have the courage to go into Heaven to help Michael, but Angelo, an angel, didn’t.  It didn’t matter that he was small, that he was not powerful.  He saw that now.  You _could_ be powerful if you played your cards right.

If he could just…be brave for once.

He was going to walk into the infirmary, find Raphael, and give him a piece of his mind.

The receptionist looked up as Angelo entered.  “Angelo!  Raphael’s been looking for you!  Nobody could find you!”

Angelo planted himself firmly in front of the desk.  “Good, because I want to talk to him.”

“Uh, okay,” said the receptionist.  “Go ahead, then.”

“Oh,” said Angelo. “All right.”

He resolutely walked past her into a hallway. A few seconds later, he stuck his head back out.  “Which way is his office?”

“First right, then second left.”

“Thanks.”

He passed by a healer on his way in.  “Angelo!  Raphael was looking for you!”

“You can’t stop me!” Angelo said. “Get out of the way!”

The healer, who hadn’t been standing in his way at all, looked at him quizzically.  Angelo hurried past him, trying to continue feeling angry instead of embarrassed.

He found Raphael’s secretary outside of his office.  “I want to talk to Raphael!” he shouted, slamming his hands on the desk.

“Oh!” they said, perking up.  “Yes, go ahead right in!  They were hoping to get a chance to talk to you.”

“Right,” said Angelo. “Okay, good.”

Try as he might, he could not find the resolve to bang the door open, so he simply entered the room quietly and shut it behind him.

Victoria and Raphael were both there, and had been poring over something on Raphael’s desk, but they looked up at him as he appeared.

“Angelo!” said Raphael.  “Finally! I haven’t been able to find you since you were discharged.  We would have kept you updated.”

“Michael can’t fall,” said Angelo.  “I won’t let you do that.”

Victoria and Raphael looked at each other, then back to him, guilty and sorrowful expressions on their faces.

“Angelo,” said Raphael.  “I’m so sorry. I know this is going to be difficult to hear, but…”

Victoria held up something from the desk, a piece of parchment with six seals on it.  

“No,” said Angelo.

“Just this morning,” said Victoria.

Angelo staggered backwards, his hand fumbling for the knob.  “No, no, no, you can’t.  You _can’t._ ”

“Angelo, wait,” said Raphael.  “Don’t panic.  I’m going to go into Hell to meet him as he falls, while Victoria stays in Heaven to— ”

Angelo was already crying too hard to speak.  He ripped the door open and ran as fast as he could.

He could hear Victoria behind him, calling for him.  She finally overtook him in the lobby.

“Angelo, please talk with us for a moment,” said Victoria.  “Come back to the office.”

“I don’t want to talk to _you_ ,” Angelo cried, smacking her hand off his arm.  “Get away from me!  Don’t touch me!  I can’t look at you right now!”

“Angelo, please don’t go,” said Victoria.

But it was too late.  He had fled out of the infirmary, tears streaming down his face.

He was afraid.  He was more afraid than he’d ever been.  And what he needed to do now would take more courage than anything he had ever done, or would do again, and he didn’t know how he’d do it alone.


	10. Back to Hell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On tumblr at http://not-a-space-alien.tumblr.com/post/163508324730/falling-hazard-part-10-back-to-hell

 

"You drew the circle wrong.”

“It’s exactly like it is in the book.”

“No,” said Crowley sliding the open volume in Aziraphale’s face, “the sigil in the very center—you know, the most important one—has _six_ points, not seven.”

Aziraphale grumpily erased bits of the chalk circle he had been working on and started again.

“Honestly, angel, for someone who’s employed supernatural sigils so effectively in the past, you’re shite at copying them out of books.”

“Well I haven’t drawn one to get into _Hell_ yet,” said Aziraphale.  “Despite my _mélange_ of un-angelic experiences with the occult, that is not something I ever had cause to do.”

“Oh for Pete’s sake,” said Crowley. “Let me have the chalk.  I’ll draw it.”

“You can’t use your arm!”

“Aziraphale, we’ve known each other for six-thousand years and you _really_ never noticed that I’m a lefty? Really?”

They managed to get the chalk circle correct eventually.  To finish things off, they lit some incense, and Crowley recited an incantation in a guttural, unpleasant language

The portal yawned open, revealing a set of stone stairs winding down into darkness.

“Here we go,” said Crowley. “Ready?”

Aziraphale took Crowley’s good hand with his own.  “Yes, let’s go.”

There was a knock at the door.  They both groaned.

“Who the Hell could that possibly be, right at the climax of our dramatic exit?” Crowley grumbled.

Aziraphale walked over and checked the peephole. “It’s Angelo!”

“What?” said Crowley.  “Back so soon?”

“It could be important,” said Aziraphale.  “Should we let him in?”

“I…” said Crowley.  “I suppose. Just open the door and tell him to get lost.”

Aziraphale undid the chain and cracked the door open. “Angelo, we were just about to leave.”

The door pushed open, shoving him to the side. Angelo marched in.  “I’m going too.  I’m going into Hell with you.”

“What?” said Crowley.  “No. No way.  We can’t babysit you down there.”

As Crowley spoke, Angelo brushed past him to clamber into the newly opened portal.

“Whatever for?” said Aziraphale, locking the door and scrambling after him. “Angelo!”

“That’s the worst idea I’ve ever heard,” said Crowley.  “Angelo!”

The smaller angel had already disappeared from view, heedless of their cries.

Crowley cursed and picked his way through the entrance and down the stairs. “Come on, angel.”

They descended, the light from the flat growing fainter and fainter. The portal closed behind them after a while, leaving them in the harsh atmosphere of Limbo.

Angelo was already on the dusty ground, looking around impatiently.  Crowley reached him first, wrenching him back by the shoulder.  “Angelo, listen to me.” He pointed up to the ceiling, where a narrow hole in the cavernous ceiling was visible.  “You are going to fly up to the exit and march your arse right out of here, understand?”

“No,” said Angelo.  “I’m staying here in Hell.”

“Angelo,” said Aziraphale, “Whatever _for_?”

Angelo crossed his arms.  “Come on, I’ve been in Hell before.”

“That was with _Michael._ ”

“I’ll stay behind you.  I won’t get in the way.”

Crowley stared at him.  “Oh my someone…  He’s going to fall, isn’t he?  Michael? He’s going to fall?  And you came down so that you could meet him when it happened?”

Angelo crossed his arms, trying to hide his upset.  “Of course not.  I just…want to talk to Maltha.”

“He’s going to fall, isn’t he?”

Angelo was stone-faced.

“Tell us, Angelo.”

The trio was interrupted by the sound of an enormous snort.  Slowly, quietly, they turned as one to see that in their argument, none of them had noticed the bus-sized boar lying a few meters behind their backs.  It had one eye cracked open, looking at them as though they had awoken it from sleep.

“Oh,” said Crowley, his voice pitching up a few octaves. “M-Mammon!  Fancy seeing you here! Ah, Aziraphale, Angelo, may I present the archdemon M-”

“Thank you, Crowley,” said the boar, hauling herself to her feet and shaking her pelt.  “I see you still have that adorable habit of trying to earn some last-minute brownie points any way you can when you think you’re in trouble.”

Crowley’s face went red all the way to his ears.

The boar snuffled forwards slowly.  “Maltha sent me up to escort you down to the lowest circle of Hell.”

“Oh!” said Crowley, relieved.  “Oh, okay.  Good.”

Mammon turned and lumbered away.  “Come on, then.”

Aziraphale and Angelo had a brief, intense nonverbal argument full of gestures and angry expressions, Aziraphale motioning frantically towards the ceiling and Angelo stubbornly shaking his head.  After a second of this, they both gave up and fell into line with Crowley behind Mammon.

The entrance to the second layer of Hell expanded to allow Mammon’s enormous, hoggish body to pass through.  It was eerily quiet.

“Ah, excuse me,” said Aziraphale, jogging up to even out with Mammon.  “May I ask, er, Lord Mammon, why did Maltha herself not come up to meet us?”

“She is keeping watch over the angels in the ninth circle,” said Mammon. “She has promised them safety, and she does not trust anyone else enough to guard them.”

That might explain why Maltha kept telling them she couldn’t guarantee their safety.  She didn’t want to leave it up to anyone else, but she had already promised to stay in the ninth layer.  Which led to one pertinent question…

“Maltha is keeping angels in the ninth circle of Hell?” said Crowley, hustling up to join the conversation. “Why?”

Mammon flicked an ear.  “I’m afraid that is to be disclosed at her discretion, not mine.”

Aziraphale’s eyes were wide as they rested on Crowley. The demon appeared to be frantically thinking, and when his eyes snapped up to meet Aziraphale’s he mouthed the words _Angel dust_.

“What?” Aziraphale whispered harshly to him.  “Whatever for?”

The demon shook his head.

Mammon squeezed through the entrance to the next layer of Hell.

“Where is everybody?” said Crowley, noting it was nearly empty.

“Maltha and Noah have been making changes,” said Mammon.  “...Not everyone is as pleased with them as I am.”

The cavern was _almost_ empty: infernal eyes could be seen peering at them from crevices in the ceiling and walls. Aziraphale did not like the way they were looking at him.

Mammon ignored them, and nobody made a move towards them.  They moved down to the next layer of Hell.

They were met by a line of demons blocking their way.

Aziraphale, Crowley, and Angelo hugged closely to Mammon, who gave a piggish low.  “Get out of the way.”

There were two dukes at the head of the group.  Crowley groaned as the male one stepped forwards, revealing himself to be Duke Hastur.  “Mammon,” he purred.  “So nice to see you again.  You barely ever come out of the ninth layer anymore.”

Mammon’s beady eyes watched him, unamused.

The other Duke—Crowley recognised her as Duke Jezebel—crept forwards to surpass Hastur and leer at the angels.  “Those aren’t any run-of-the-mill angels you’re escorting, Mammon, surely you must realise that?”

“Of course,” said Mammon.

“Why don’t you give them to us, hm?”

“No.”

“Oh, come on,” said Hastur, oozing forwards until he could have reached out and patted Mammon’s face if he wanted.  “Hell is big enough that we could hide them and she would never find them. You could just say they never showed up.”

“No.  Get out of the way.”

Jezebel stepped closer, rubbing her hands and looking at the group wickedly. “Think about all the leverage you could have with those three. You could overthrow Maltha. You could manipulate the archangel Michael. Use your imagination.”

Mammon flicked her tail.

“Mammon,” whispered Crowley desperately.  “Don’t you think we should be going?”

“Yes, M-Maltha is expecting us,” Aziraphale added fearfully. “Don’t want to show up late.”  

“I am waiting,” said Mammon, “for Duke Jezebel to remove herself from my path.”

Duke Jezebel and Duke Hastur did not move.

Mammon began to trundle forward, like a truck shifting gears.  The two dukes backed up slightly.

“Move.”

Jezebel began, “Lord Mammon, what if we offered you—”

With one motion of Mammon’s head, an enormous tusk came around and cracked into Jezebel’s midsection, sending her flying with such force that she disappeared from sight behind a rocky outcropping.

Mammon shook her head, flinging droplets of blood off her tusk. “Anyone else?”

Duke Hastur scrambled to move back to the rest of the group of rebels, who had cleared a path to the exit.

They stayed as close to Mammon as they could as they passed the group of demons, who were radiating hatred for them.  Hastur gave Crowley a specially-directed sneer.

Mammon made no comment about the incident, and they passed into the next layer of Hell.

“Angel,” said Crowley in a panicked whisper.  He tugged at Aziraphale’s sleeve, then motioned upwards.

Aziraphale looked up to see Kabata lounging in a crevasse partway up the wall.  He looked a bit worse for the wear of being in Hell—one of his horns had broken halfway off—but his eyes burned with interest on them.

“M-mammon,” stuttered Aziraphale when Mammon did not acknowledge Kabata at all. “That archdemon has a history with us and we were concerned—”

“Maltha has had her court magician prepare a spell in case Kabata tries anything,” said Mammon.  “And he knows it.  You need not worry.”

Kabata stretched himself out and flicked an ear.  It looked like he might have liked to say something, but he kept quiet as Mammon led them past into the next layer of Hell.

They reached the ninth layer without further trouble.  Mammon insisted they go in first.  The tunnel expanded to allow her entry, but the three lesser man-shaped beings found the tunnel quite claustrophobic.

They came out into a familiar set of black stone hallways.  Crowley fell disconcertingly quiet.

“Maltha is in the throne room,” said Mammon. “Let us proceed.”

They patted tensely forwards.  Water could be heard dripping from somewhere faintly.  A small cross-breeze blew in their faces.

A chain clinked audibly from the doorway beside them.  Crowley froze.

“I’m right here,” said Aziraphale, grabbing his good hand.

Crowley squeezed his hand very tightly, but he did not move, his eyes wide.

Mammon bumped him gently from behind with her snout.  “Let’s not dwell here.”

“Of course,” said Aziraphale.  He took Crowley by the shoulders and helped him walk away from the door, whispering to him.

“He’s dead. He can’t hurt you.”

“Right,” said Crowley.

Despite the fact that it was empty, that section was still horribly unpleasant.  Even Mammon seemed glad to leave it behind.  Their feet fell on yellow carpeting as they came out into an antechamber, perfectly straight stone-cute doorways branching off from it like spokes on a wheel.  The biggest entrance was straight ahead, and Mammon motioned towards it.  “Maltha is waiting to receive you in the throne room.”

“Here we go,” said Aziraphale.

There was a literal red carpet running the length of the enormous chamber straight up to the throne, soaring pillars on either side clamping to the roof, where stone gargoyles holding torches snarled down at them.  Seeing Maltha on the throne, surrounded by a court, where he had seen Satan so many times before really made the reality of the situation sink in for Crowley.  She filled it fully just as he had, claws extended on the armrests, regal, in complete domination of the entire room.

She looked incredibly unhappy.  

Noah was beside the throne on the floor, kneeling on a mat patterned with roads and buildings, pushing small plastic cars and trains and dinosaurs across it.

Crowley found himself falling to one knee almost out of habit halfway to the throne.  Aziraphale copied him, unsure of the proper etiquette, and not wanting to cause trouble. Angelo remained standing, looking anxious and conflicted.

Maltha unfolded herself from the throne.  “You don’t need to bow to me, Angelo.  I’m not your lord.”

A spasm of indecision crossed Angelo’s face.  Then, he knelt anyway.

Maltha sighed and turned back to the court.  “Leave us alone for a few moments, if you will.”

The three newcomers remained as they were as everyone filed out.  The door shut behind the last of them, leaving Maltha, Noah, and Mammon alone in the room with them.

Maltha turned back around and descended the stairs to the throne.  “Please stand.  You two are my friends, not my subjects.”

They did so, a tad embarrassed.

Maltha extended a hand as she reached Crowley, brushing against his face and crooning.  “Hello, there you are.”

She planted a small kiss on top of his head, then turned to sweep her gaze over Angelo.  “Well, well. I expected these two, but this is a surprise. I would ask why you’ve come, but I suspect I already know.”

Angelo had stayed kneeling until addressed, and he now rocketed up. “Maltha, I beg of your mercy.”

Aziraphale was puzzled by the panic in his voice.  Maltha had shown no signs of antagonism towards him. Then he realised: Angelo was a battle strategist at heart. The only reason he had never shown panic around archdemons before was because he had been right next to Michael and had calculated the odds were in his favour.  Exactly the opposite now: To someone so used to relying on others to keep him safe, the situation would look as though Maltha would take his life at any time, like a zoo where the bars between you and a tiger were suddenly removed.

Maltha extended her hand, an amused smile playing over her face.  “You are welcome here, too, Angelo.  You are my guest.”

Sweating, Angelo did not look convinced.

“Now, then,” said Maltha, returning her attention to Crowley. “Let me see your injury.”

Crowley removed the cloth covering his wound.

She hissed, taking his arm in her hands.  “What happened?  This looks like a holy water burn. Where did this come from?”

“Heaven,” said Crowley regretfully. “It, erm…”

Maltha stared at him.  “Heaven? You were in Heaven?”

He nodded, paling.

She examined the injury for a few more moments.  “Mammon.”

The boar, which had flopped onto her side by the entrance, raised her head.

“Have the court spellcaster cast a protection ward around the ninth circle immediately.”

“Are you to be leaving, Lord Maltha?”

“Yes.  This will require immediate surgery.  Do you think you can hold the ninth layer for a few hours while I take Crowley to the clinic in the third circle?”

Mammon flared her nostrils.  “If there are wards around the entrance, I am positive it will be secure in your absence, upon my life.”

“Good.  Let no one in or out.  Please keep watch over my visitors.  If any of our...guests notice my absence, please reassure them I will be back as soon as I can.  Aziraphale and Angelo should stay here in the throne room.”

“Hold on,” said Aziraphale.  “We’re staying together.  I’m going with you.”

Maltha’s eyes were on fire when she whipped back to him.  “I don’t know how this happened, but I’m sure it was something _you_ irresponsible angels were behind.  And now I _have_ to leave the ninth layer because of this mess you’ve made.   _You_ will stay here until after I am done treating him, before you make anything worse with your foolishness.  ”

She turned around and unsnapped her royal robes, letting them fall to the floor.  The crown was tossed onto the ground to follow.  “And I’m tired of wearing this nonsense.  Come on, Crowley.”

Maltha began to herd Crowley towards the door before Aziraphale could complain further.

Aziraphale wrung his hands as the two demons vanished.  He had a sinking feeling about being separated, and he felt chastised since Maltha so obviously blamed him for Crowley’s injury.  But there was not much for him to do but obey, since Mammon had moved out into the antechamber and was now guarding all the exits simultaneously.

So here he was, alone in Satan’s throne room with Angelo, the antichrist, and the archdemon Mammon.  Not something he would have guessed would happen.

He crept towards the stone doors and watched as Mammon talked briefly with an imp, giving the commands for the wards. He waited until they were finished and the imp skittered off, then said, “Ah, excuse me.”

Mammon turned a beady eye towards him.

“I’d like to go up to the third layer.  Would you escort me?”

“You heard Maltha clearly say you are supposed to stay in the throne room,” said Mammon.

Aziraphale tapped his fingers.  “Ah…yes.  But I thought it was worth a shot at least.  Come on, you don’t want to be bad? Disobey?”

“No.”

“…Just a little bit?”

“…No.”

Aziraphale sighed, sitting down at the threshold to the throne room. “And why not?  What’s your story?  You’ve obviously earned Maltha’s trust, and it seems rightfully so.  I wouldn’t think any of the archdemons would have been so quick to be won over.”

Mammon’s nose sniffed idly.

“Pardon me if it was rude to ask.”

“The only answer I’ll give you is this,” said Mammon.  “I have always been very greedy.  There was nothing I ever wanted that I could not have.  I even went up to Earth, and anything I wanted was mine for the taking.  Money, power, servants, food, gold, sex, blood sacrifices.  Legions of humans have thrown their lives away to make me happy. But nothing I ever got filled an ever-growing need inside of me, and it was only recently that I realised what it was: I am greedy for a better world, which is one thing that always seemed out of reach to even me.  But I believe that in this way, I shall have it.”

“Oh,” said Aziraphale.  “That’s very noble of you.”

“Nobility has nothing to do with it,” said Mammon.  “My interest are entirely self-serving.  All demons’ are, in one way or another.  Don’t ever forget that.”

“You’re wrong.”

Mammon’s bestial face was unreadable.

“You’re lying to yourself because you don’t want to admit you’re being nice.  You’re trying to blame it on your basic nature to avoid the cognitive dissonance of free will. I’ve seen it before.  I’ve seen it dozens of times.”

Mammon flicked her tail.

“Er…” said Aziraphale.  “…No disrespect.”

“Don’t push your luck, little angel,” said Mammon.  “Now, step back so I can shut the door.”

Aziraphale regretfully took a step back.  Mammon nosed the doors shut.  Aziraphale stared at the blocked entryway for a few moments before sighing and trudging back towards the throne.

Angelo was still standing up ramrod straight, directionless, as though he hadn’t thought his plan this far through and hadn’t expected to make it this far.  Noah was still playing with his cars.

Aziraphale made his way to the far side of the room and knelt on Noah’s carpet.  “What’s this you’ve got here?” said Aziraphale, who had never been very good with children.

“Cars,” said Noah.  “And a dragon.”

“A dragon?  How fierce!”

Angelo came up behind him.  “Aziraphale, are you sure this is a good idea?  Maybe we should try and get out.”

“I told you not to come down, Angelo,” said Aziraphale testily.  “If you want to try and get out to who knows where, you are welcome to try.  I’m in the middle of trying to talk to Noah about his cars, and that can’t be interrupted.”

“Oh.”

Angelo simply continued to stand where he was, ill-at-ease.

Noah showed him the model he was proudest of, which was enlarged and had enough space to put in a small plastic man.  Aziraphale helped him arrange the cars on the mat for a few minutes, then asked, “How are things down here, Noah?”

“S’all right, I suppose,” said Noah.  “Hell’s a lot nicer now that we’ve gotten rid of all the torture.”

Aziraphale thought of the rooms they had passed to reach the throne room, specifically about how they had all been empty.  “I think that was a wise decision.”

“Not everybody likes it so much.  Lots of dunderheads are upset with me, apparently.  Keep trying to get at me.  Maltha doesn’t let them, though.”

Aziraphale ruffled his hair.  “I’m glad. Noah, are you happy?”

“Am I happy?”

“Yes, are you happy with where you are?  And how things are going?”

After a moment of silent contemplation, he answered, “Yeah, s’pose.”

“I guess that’s as good as most humans get,” said Aziraphale, patting his shoulder. “Good boy.”

* * *

Maltha ushered Crowley to the clinic as quickly as she could, not letting him dwell in the black stone hallway enough for him to get upset.  There was no avoiding the clinic, though.  The lights still buzzed.  The floor was still dirty.

The entryway lay empty.  “Where is everyone?” said Crowley.

“I fired them all,” said Maltha.

“You fired all the healers?” said Crowley, peering at the vacant receiving desk. “Why?”

“They weren’t healers.  None of them had ever done a single job correctly.  They were only given to me by Satan to pacify me.  I’ve always known this, but only recently admitted it to myself.”

“So who’s using the clinic now?”

Maltha waved him into an examination room. “Me, occasionally, but usually no one. Perhaps the odd demon who gets injured and has enough courage to try and treat themselves.”

It was the exact same examination room he had been in last time he was here, with the same broken needles and rusty sink.  It seemed less threatening this time, but he still couldn’t shake his feelings of nervousness.  Maltha busied herself immediately with bustling about sanitizing and sterilizing odd bits of the room.

“Sit up there,” she said, indicating the padded bench.  The paper crinkled as he followed her directions.

She clucked her tongue as she removed the brace and unwrapped his arm. “You made a valiant effort, but alas. My poor healer.  Lie back.”

He did so.  He then gave a startled shout and flailed against a piece of plastic being pushed over his nose and mouth.

Crowley sat up, panic flaring, only to see Maltha holding a mask attached to a hose in one hand.

“What’s that?”

“I have to anesthetise you.”

His eyes darted around the room, thinking of how vulnerable he was in Hell, and how they had been in real danger on the way down.  He didn’t want to admit it, but he was also thinking of his last visit here, being drugged and held against his will.  “Must you?”

“Crowley, I’m not performing surgery on you while you’re _awake._ ”

He did not resume his reclining position.  Maltha set the mask down.  “Okay, I can tell I tried to do this a bit too fast.  Clearly you don’t have fond memories of this place, either.”

He was suddenly embarrassed.  “Er, well no demon does, really…”

That probably wouldn’t help anything, he thought too late.  Maltha did not seem offended, though.  Her hands were folded in contemplation.  “Crowley, did I ever apologise to you?”

“Apologise?”

“For what I did. Or tried to do.”

“That’s…That’s in the past.”

She put her head in her hands.  “And if I …If I had been around, if I had stayed in contact with you, I could have helped you, none of those awful things would have happened to you. I was a fool for leaving you two.  My life has been nothing but a series of mistakes.”

“Well, I mean…” said Crowley.  “It’s not as bad as you make it sound.”

She clenched her fist.  “But no more mistakes.  I’m going to do everything in my power to protect what I love.  I’m going to set everything right.”

“Sounds like you’ve got a plan.”

“A plan.  Yes, we have a plan.”

“Why didn’t you tell me, Maltha?  Why won’t you tell me and Aziraphale what’s going on?”

Maltha fiddled with the edge of a stethoscope.  “I…think it would upset Aziraphale.”

Crowley stared at her.  “You didn’t tell us because you didn’t want to hurt his feelings?  Really?  Have…have you no idea really what it means to be friends with someone?”

“I care very much about my friends’ feelings,” snapped Maltha.  “In case you didn’t notice, everyone in Heaven _and_ Hell has put me in a very unfair position, and it hasn’t been without its share of stress.  I may make a few mistakes. I am trying my best.”

All the questions Crowley had had since the destruction of the temple were bubbling up again.  “I know you’re trying your best.  You’re under a lot of pressure.”

“We are doing something that requires the utmost secrecy, and Aziraphale has a big mouth.”

“What?” said Crowley.  “Are you serious?  You think Aziraphale can’t keep a secret?”

Maltha was glaring at the mask in her hand.  “I didn’t want to put you in a position where you might have to lie to him. He is full of doubt and uncertainty. It would put strain on you both, and on your relationship.”

Crowley burst out laughing, palming his forehead.  “Maltha, I swear sometimes you oscillate between having zero clue about interpersonal relationships at all, and being so uncannily accurate I swear you could read my mind.”

Maltha looked mournful.  “I know what Aziraphale is going through, Crowley.  When you’ve been lying to yourself for six-thousand years, having to come to terms with the reality you’ve been ignoring isn’t easy.  When the status quo breaks down, people may behave strangely.”

Crowley sighed. “You’re right about that.”

Maltha held the mask back up.  “Are you ready now?  I imagine you must be in a lot of pain.”

Crowley nodded, then lay back.  He had to fight to keep himself still as Maltha put the mask over his face, inhaling the gas with short, panicked breaths.

“You’re doing great,” sang Maltha.  “Just trust me.”

* * *

_Beep.  Beep.  Beep._

The heart monitor wasn’t strictly necessary, as Maltha could hear and sense every twitch of her patient’s vitals, but it was the _atmosphere_ it gave the room.  After she had seen one of those beeping machines on a TV drama Beth had shown her, she had decided that the next time she did a procedure, she would use one.

It had been a long time since she had worn scrubs and a face mask.  She liked it much better than what she had been doing:  Ruling. Inducing fear.  Being the type of leader that demons needed, without being the type of leader that made demons awful.  Trying to keep all of Hell in line.

Trying to be a damn parent to a human child, by herself, without the one person who had always made everything on Earth make so much sense.  

This, she could do.  This was familiar territory.  Maltha had quite literally pioneered infernal healing single-handedly. The art of repairing an occult form that would die from exposure to holy water was no easy task. Raphael had it easy.  Holy water would cure most angelic wounds given enough time.

It was the reason Crowley hadn’t been able to do anything for himself.  He was out of practice.  He could heal wounds from weapons, swords, arrows. Basics.  Things you wouldn’t need holy water for on an angel.  But no one had ever healed a wound from holy water before, let alone one caused by the very atmosphere of Heaven itself.

But Maltha was in her element.  And she had had 6,000 years to practice.

Scissors snipped.  Clamps clamped.  A variety of other tools did a variety of other delicate tasks with preternatural deftness.

The door opened.

Maltha’s head jerked up, her eyes—the only line of her face not covered by gauzy dressings--aflame.

It was Abraxas and her angel, Paula.  They took in the sight of Maltha bent over Crowley, who was sprawled out and completely limp, knuckle-deep in a gnarly wound that had spread all the way up to his collarbone.

“Sorry to interrupt you, Ma’am,” said Abraxas.

_Beep.  Beep. Beep._

Maltha was sneering under her face mask, arranging a series of clamps on the work she had just been doing.  “Awfully bold of you to interrupt me and then address the regent ruler of Hell as _Ma’am,_ Abraxas.”

“We wouldn’t have come unless it was important, Lord Maltha,” said Paula.

Maltha removed her bloody hands from Crowley’s wounds and put them on either side of the table, looking as though she were fighting the urge to snap something in half out of anger.  “What is it, Paula?”

“We’ve just received word that the Archangel Michael has been sentenced to fall.  All the angels received the message.  It was a general address.  It could happen at any moment.”

_Beep.  Beep.  Beep._

_“_ Oh,” said Maltha. “Oh, that’s good.  Yes. Finally.”

“We should make the preparations.”

Maltha’s hands returned to Crowley.  “I will join you when I’ve finished this.”

“Lord Maltha,” said Paula.  “Time is a factor.  You should get in your armor.”

“I would rather cut off my own _arm_ than let this demon die,” snarled Maltha. Her hands were shaking on her tools, so she forced herself to stop and look up at Abraxas and Paula.  “Do you understand me?”

“We weren’t suggesting…” said Abraxas.

“There isn’t a way to continue later…” said Paula.

“Do you know what kind of wound this is?” said Maltha.  “One inflicted from Heaven itself.  He will die if I don’t finish this right now.  You cannot interrupt me.”

They both looked at Crowley.  “What happened to him?” said Paula.  Abraxas looked like she already knew.

“Those fools used an un-tempered version of the angel dust spell to go into Heaven,” said Maltha.  “The wound is spreading from an area consistent with a patch of dust being wiped off. I wonder where they could have gotten the spell, _Abraxas._ ”

Abraxas was looking intensely at her feet. “Lord Aziraphale asked me.  I could not say no.”

“You gave them the _un-tempered_ version, Abraxas.”

“You were still experimenting with the potable version.  And you hadn’t given me any of the newer versions yet. The one Agares had was the only version I had access to.”

“The un-tempered version is too dangerous to use, Abraxas!” hissed Maltha, gesturing to Crowley.  “This is why! Surely you must have a brain in that head of yours!”

“I apologise, Ma’am,” said Abraxas.

“There you go again,” said Maltha.  “Get out of the operating room.  You’re contaminating it with your stupidity.”

Abraxas pivoted to leave.

“One more thing before you do,” said Maltha.  “Apparently the group resisting us threatened my guests on the way down.   Please ask Mammon to order a search for them, so that we can have them brought down as soon as I return to the ninth circle.”

“Of course,” said Abraxas, leaving.

“Paula,” said Maltha. “Go help the other angels get ready.  I think we should still have some time before we have to meet Michael in Limbo.”

“How do you know, Lord?” said Paula.

 _Snip.  Snip._ “Because Uriel loves to be melodramatic, and will move to cast him out as the sun sets on the Earth.”

* * *

Truthfully, Crowley had half-expected not to wake up at all.

His nagging feelings of doubt turned out to be unfounded.  He found himself drifting up out of unconsciousness.

The first thing he noticed was a wet feeling on his arm. The second thing was a weight on his lap. He was afraid to open his eyes, but he did anyway, because you could only avoid that for so long.

Aziraphale was asleep with his head on the demon’s lap, one hand limply resting on Crowley’s own.  Crowley moved his left hand to the angel’s curly hair, combing through it.

He looked over at his right hand.  It was submerged in a hot water bath of some sort.  It was being held down by a small weight, which he shook off to remove his hand.

The skin was a bit red with inflammation, but it was smooth and whole. He flexed his fingers, turning his palm inwards and outwards.  

“Amazing,” he said.  “Is there anything she can’t do?”

“Feeling better?” said a voice.

He looked up to see Angelo in a chair across the room.

“Mm,” said Aziraphale, stirring, then sitting upright and blinking.  “I’m awake. What’s…Oh. Oh, my dear, you’re awake! How are you feeling?”

He showed Aziraphale his arm.  “Pretty good, actually.”

Aziraphale gently wrapped both his hands around the newly repaired arm.  “I’m so, so glad.”

“I honestly didn’t know…” said Crowley.  “I wasn’t sure if I could trust her.   I doubted her, Aziraphale.  The same way you did to me.  But she reacted calmly and gave me time, instead of just getting angry at me like I did to you.”

“Don’t think about that,” said Aziraphale.  “That’s over and done with.  You focus on getting better now.”

“Well,” said Crowley.  “Now that we’re here in Hell, maybe we can get some answers about what’s going on.”

The door to the room suddenly expanded, and a huge snout appeared. Mammon jammed her head into the room. “Crowley.”

“Ah!” they all said, startled.

Mammon’s nostrils flared.  “Maltha wanted me to check on you.  It seems you’re doing fine?”

“Yes, yes.”

“Good.  Maltha wants you to stay in bed until this evening.  She says you should be almost completely better by then if you allow your arm to continue soaking in the water bath.”

“Oh,” said Crowley.  “I-I see. What exactly is in here?  Is it….infernal water of some sort?”

Mammon sniffed again.  “I would not know.  That is not my area of expertise.”

“Oh.”

“The clinic has been fortified to keep you safe. Stay here until either I or Maltha comes to retrieve you.  She wants to have dinner together.”

“Dinner?” said Aziraphale.  “All right. That sounds delightful.”

The door relaxed back to its previous size as Mammon’s head disappeared.

“Infernal water?” said Aziraphale.  “As in a Hellish version of holy water?”

“Dunno,” said Crowley.  “...Maybe you two’d better stay away from it all the same.”

Aziraphale miracled a pack of playing cards with which to occupy themselves until evening.  He started with a few magic tricks, which the others did not find as entertaining as he had hoped, so they switched to card games eventually.  Angelo had never played before, of course, and Crowley was only playing with one hand, so Aziraphale had an unfair advantage, which he made full use of.

They passed the time until dinner laughing and joking, just the three of them, oblivious to the ominous rumblings on the horizon boding what was coming.


	11. Feast (Reprise)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> on tumblr at http://not-a-space-alien.tumblr.com/post/163965291180/falling-hazard-part-11-feast-reprise

“Lord Maltha wishes your presence now.”

Whatever Maltha had done had worked; Crowley’s arm was completely better by the time Mammon summoned them down to dinner as promised.  He was glad to leave the clinic behind once again.

They ran into no trouble on the way down this time.  Mammon led them back into the ninth circle, through the antechamber, and into one of the entrances to the right of the throne room.

They emerged into an exquisite banquet hall, with a soaring vaulted ceiling, carved pillars, and an enormous, ornate wooden table with dozens of seats. Maltha was at the far end, seated at the head of the table. Noah was in the seat next to her; he looked to be sitting on a stack of phone books.

“Thank you for joining us,” said Maltha. “Please sit.”

The heavy chairs scraped on the stone floor as Aziraphale and Crowley took the seats closest to her.  Mammon circled around to stand behind Maltha. Angelo remained standing, looking around unsurely.

“Please sit, Angelo.  You are my guest as well.”

He did so.

“Maltha,” said Aziraphale.  “Thank you very much for healing Crowley.”

“I take it you are doing better?” said Maltha.

“Yes,” said Crowley.  “Thank you.”

They occupied only a small portion of the table.  It was almost comical, to have only five people at a banquet in accommodations clearly made for much larger capacity.   The huge room seemed inordinately quiet and hollow with just them, and so far the table only held empty platters and unused silverware.

“Um,” said Aziraphale, “will anyone else be joining us?”

“Perhaps eventually,” she answered vaguely.

Crowley looked around, gesturing to the table. “You aren’t going to invite any of your court?”

“No, I don’t think so,” said Maltha mildly.

They sat there in the spooky semidarkness for a few moments, light from the burning torches casting strange, angular shadows across the room.

Crowley cleared his throat.  “Maltha, now that we’re here, we’d like to talk to you about some things.  You haven’t answered us very well in your correspondences by mail.”

Maltha held up one finger. The door behind her creaked open amidst a clatter of dishes.  “It’s impolite to talk business during dinner.”

And so it went.  A team of demons laden with trays of gourmet food appeared, dishing it out, serving wine, talking in hushed voices.  When everything was laid out, they stood at attention at the wall.

Maltha took a fork and a knife in each hand, beginning the meal with the roast of some unknown animal in the center.  “So, Aziraphale, Crowley, I heard you went on vacation recently. Tell me about it.”

They were forced to make small talk as though nothing were out of the ordinary.  They told her about the trip they had taken around Europe and the Middle East.  She did not seem fazed in the slightest when they told her they had witnessed the destruction of Temple Mount, and continued to chew while nodding as though hearing a good bit of gossip.

Maltha seemed genuinely interested in their story—not a big surprise given wandering had been her activity of choice upon first coming to love the Earth—and Noah seemed positively enthralled.  Crowley thought maybe Noah had grown a bit bored down here, with Maltha doing all the work to keep him safe and things running smoothly.

“Maltha?” said Aziraphale.  “May I ask where Beth is?”

This, and only this, was enough to make Maltha pause in the entire meal. She put her utensils down.  “She is…unavailable.”

“Maltha,” Crowley reiterated.  “Where _is_ Beth?”

“Maltha, we’re friends,” said Aziraphale. “Please tell us what’s going on. It’s rather uncharitable of you to keep us in the dark.”

Maltha tapped her spoon on her dish. “I just wanted…just once to have a meal with you two again.  To maybe have another feast like that one we all had together.  The moment I got word that Satan had died and events were in motion, I knew I had missed the opportunity to spend time with you as equals on Earth like I wanted to.  I thought we could have a nice meal without the stress of the impending apocalypse, or Heaven or Hell.  Just us. But I can see you’re impatient.  So let’s move on, then.”

She snapped at the wait staff, who busied themselves with removing their half-eaten meals immediately.  The table was clear in under a minute, leaving only a wine glass at Maltha’s direction.

Maltha pulled Noah’s chair out for him and said, “Noah, why don’t you run off to bed a bit early today?”

“Aww,” said Noah.  “But you’re going to talk about something really important.”

“And you’ll be filled in on the details later,” said Maltha, hauling him up so she could plant a kiss on his forehead.  “Why don’t you see if the chef will give you a biscuit before you head out, hm?”

She set Noah down, and he scampered off.  Maltha motioned to one of the attendants nearby. “See to it he gets to bed, will you?”

The servant disappeared after Noah, and the door boomed shut.  A few servants hung back by the wall, rushing to finish the cleanup.

Maltha downed the rest of the wine in her glass, then set the empty goblet on the table.  She focused on Aziraphale and Crowley, as though about to say something very important.  “I’m going to be honest with you two, I have no idea how to raise a child.  I have found myself filling many roles in my life. Healer.  Warrior.  Leader. And now I find myself in one few demons ever do: Parent.”

“Maltha,” said Angelo, who had barely made a peep throughout the meal. “If you are going to say something very private, would you like me to leave?”

“No,” said Maltha.  “I think you deserve to hear this, too, Angelo. Please stay here.”

Angelo looked uncomfortable, as though he were sitting in a building he was not entirely sure was not on fire.

“When I agreed to take Noah down, I confess I didn’t think about the responsibility it would be to not only help him rule, but to raise him as well.  The truth is that Beth was doing most of the heavy lifting raising Noah while I kept Hell in line.  Noah is somewhere between demon, human, and angel, and I knew in my heart I would do an insufficient job alone, because I could not raise him to truly understand how to be human the way Adam is, which has been key to his success.  If he were simply a demon like the rest of us, if he belonged solely to Hell, well…”

“We’d just have another Satan,” said Crowley.

Maltha nodded.  “I want Noah to grow up to be different.  I want Noah to grow up and be a merciful ruler, unlike his father.  Which is why I do not want him to know what is going to happen tonight.  I want to create a world in which he will not have to be as ruthless as I am.”

That did not bode well, Aziraphale thought.  Not at all.

“Beth had a terrible, burdensome past she kept hidden.  She used to have a child.  It was a bit younger than Noah when it died, along with Beth’s previous partner.”

“Oh,” said Crowley.

“Beth’s life has been filled more pain than even I can imagine.  And yet she always kept going.  Nothing seemed to slow her down.  Nothing destroyed her will to keep going, nothing overcame her resilience.  But not even a human like her could fight against Heaven.”

“Heaven has done something?” said Aziraphale.

“They saw fit to stamp out such a spirit,” snarled Maltha.  Then, with a wave of her hand: “So if you want to know where she is so badly, why don’t you ask your archangel friends?”

A piece of celestial parchment with Gabriel’s seal on it materialised onto the table in front of Aziraphale.  He unrolled it to see that it read:

_To the archdemon Maltha,_

_Yes, I’ve taken her.  She is the deepest part of Heaven.  You will have to destroy creation itself to get her back. Come at us with everything you’ve got._

_-The Archangel Gabriel_

“Wh-what?” said Aziraphale. “What is this?”

“The last time I saw Beth, she had gone out for a walk in the eighth circle with an escort of warriors.  A few hours later, we found the bodies of her escort destroyed, and Beth was nowhere to be found.  The next day, I received this letter from Gabriel.”

Aziraphale turned the letter over and over. The seal seemed real.  It was Gabriel’s handwriting.  “But Heaven can’t harm humans!” said Aziraphale.  “It _couldn’t_ have been Gabriel.  Azrael is the only angel allowed to take humans into Heaven.  Gabriel wouldn’t do that.”

“Let’s see just how far that obstinacy of yours will you carry you through the evening, Aziraphale,” said Maltha testily.  “Apparently the story is that someone, somewhere prayed a prayer of mercy over Beth, and someone in Heaven found that enough pretence for a ‘rescue’ from ‘punishment’ in Hell, despite the fact that she was in Hell willingly.”

Aziraphale’s blood turned to ice.  A prayer of mercy.  It couldn’t have been the one he had prayed over their feast in his shop after destroying Agares.  

…could it?

“I have never seen such a blatant attempt to antagonise me,” said Maltha. “Gabriel did this because he assumed I would become so enraged that I would start the war with Heaven.  Those fools were so desperate to start the war that they struck right below the belt at me—the one in control of the antichrist, the only one in any position to conceivably start the war, even though it was an unconscionable violation of Heaven’s rules for treatment of humans.”

Something in the room trilled, and a small sphinx leapt up onto the table, ears flicking, roving around for leftovers.

“And there’s Toby,” said Maltha. “Hello, Toby.”

The sphinx tucked its paws under its body and loafed around on the table.

Maltha continued, “Heaven could not have done this on their own, though. Michael is the only angel who could lead an expedition that deep into Hell. Someone in Hell betrayed me and brought Beth up to where a party from Heaven could reach her.”

“Lord Maltha,” Mammon interjected.  “On that topic, it might be a good time to bring in the rebel that I captured earlier.”

“Oh, good,” said Maltha. “You found their hideout like I asked earlier?”

“Yes.”

“And who did you capture?”

“One of the leaders.”

“Okay, bring them in, please.”

Mammon turned and lumbered off.  Maltha closed her eyes and crossed her fingers.  “Please be Jezebel please be Jezebel please be Jezebel please be anyone but—”

Duke Hastur’s voice could be heard echoing down the hall, angrily demanding release.  Maltha groaned softly.  

“Not _him_ ,” moaned Crowley.  “Why is it always him, in exactly the wrong place at the wrong time?”

Mammon reappeared with her unhappy charge.  His thrashing and cursing startled Toby, who skittered to the edge of the table to seek safety by Maltha.  Maltha stroked the sphinx’s flank as Hastur was forced to his knees.

“Duke Hastur,” said Maltha, “welcome.”

Hastur managed to spit into her face.

An electrified, deadly silence fell over the room.  The imps were all frozen as though Hastur had just activated a bomb.

Maltha paused for a moment before wiping her cheek with her hand.  “I think I shall need more wine to deal with this.”

Three different servants rushed over to fill her glass.

“You would desecrate our master’s banquet hall by inviting traitors and angels into it!” Hastur shouted.  “You are no queen of mine.”

Maltha had been occupied with taking great gulps of wine as he spoke, and she did not stop until she reached the bottom of her glass.  She set it back down, where it was refilled instantly. She looked at Hastur, mentally turning him over and over in her head, as though he were an interesting insect.

“Duke Hastur,” she said, a toothy smile spreading across her face.  “Do you remember the last time we spoke directly? Back before I took the throne?”

Hastur’s sneer did not disappear.

“Wasn’t it in Crowley’s flat?”  Maltha snapped her fingers.  “That was it. Crowley was asleep.”

“When was Hastur in my flat while I was asleep?” Crowley broke in, alarmed.

“And do you remember what I told you?  Wasn’t it that if you bothered Aziraphale or Crowley again, you’d regret it?”

Hastur’s scowl deepened.

“And didn’t you carry Crowley down to Hell for torture with your own hands?”

“He deserved it,” spat Hastur. “He deserved it and more, and so do you.”

“Duke Hastur was among the group that tried to threaten your guests on the way down,” said Mammon.

“I suppose I should have guessed it would be you,” said Maltha.  “Okay, Hastur.  I have an ultimatum for you.  I want you to apologise to Crowley.”

“ _Apologise?_ ” said Duke Hastur incredulously.  “As though we’re human children?”

Maltha downed the rest of her wine.  “Very well, Hastur, I wanted to give you the chance to make amends because Crowley will be deciding your punishment, but if you’d rather be belligerent it makes no difference to me.”

Hastur’s gaze burned into Crowley angrily.  The lesser demon slunk into his seat.  “Wh-what, me?”

“I thought it would be fair, considering everything Hastur has done out of hatred for you.”

Crowley opened his mouth, then shut it again.  He shook his head.

“He won’t do it,” Hastur laughed.  “Because he’s a little bitch.”

“Hastur,” said Maltha in a cautionary tone.

“He’s Heaven’s little bitch who’s not good at anything but taking an angel’s cock and it’ll only be a matter of time before someone fucks him over again. When you’re expelled from Hell I’m sure whoever takes the throne next will use him as a little fuck toy, and he’ll probably like it.”

Crowley grew redder and redder.  Aziraphale sputtered indignantly, but could find nothing to say.  Maltha slammed her empty wine glass on the table.

“Hastur,” she said.  “How… _exactly_ …can I impress upon you the danger you’re in right now?  My patience with you is running thin.”

“I don’t give a fuck about your patience.  You’re weak.  You stupid whore, you don’t even know how to interrogate prisoners properly.”

Maltha leaned back in her seat and threw her hand out over the armrest. Her staff materialised and dropped into her palm, and she tapped it on the floor.  “It’s very unlucky for you that Crowley could not be convinced to pass judgement on you, because that means it falls to me, and you could probably guess which of the two of us is more forgiving.  If you think my biggest flaw is that I’m too merciful, I can think of one excellent opportunity to start remedying that, and its name is _Duke Hastur_.”

The tip of her staff began to glow, black smoke wisping off it.  Hastur fell silent.

“Suddenly he does not have such a foul mouth.  Maybe if you’re done spouting off insults and slurs we can have an actual conversation.  Now, you and Jezebel have been putting in all this effort to try and remove me and Noah from Hell’s throne.  I want to ask you why.  Please tell me, Hastur, what exactly do you not like about me?  What’s wrong with how I’m running Hell?”

Hastur glared at her from the floor, hands tugging at his bonds. “You’ve gotten rid of all the torture.”

“And?”

“And that’s supposed to be the point of Hell!  What’s the point if there’s no torture?”

“I got rid of the torture at Noah’s explicit direction.  It distressed him very much.  And you know, I find it very interesting that out of all the changes I’ve made, the one about torture has drawn the most dissatisfaction.  But only from the higher-ups.  The imps and lesser demons all seem to like it very much.”

“The imps haven’t lost any limbs in a while,” Hastur scoffed.  “What kind of demon lord doesn’t even torture their underlings?  Satan wouldn’t have been so easy on them.”

“I find it noteworthy that the imps in the ninth layer have actually made efforts to alert me to threats to my safety, which is something I understand they never did for Satan.”

Hastur cast his stormy glare on the imps lurking at the periphery of the room, and they scuttled out of sight.

Maltha tapped her staff.  “Okay, so you don’t like the lack of torture.”

“Lots of demon don’t.”

“I never said they did.  What else is there, Hastur?  What have I done to displease you so much?”

Hastur sulkily searched around for a moment.  “You lock your enemies in the dungeon until you think you can trust them instead of torturing them.  You’ve got most of the other archdemons locked up, including Beelzebub.  And now you’ve got me tied up like some imp.”

Maltha put her head on a fist.  “Honestly, Hastur, you’re obsessed with the fact that I don’t torture people, and then you complain that I’m mistreating my prisoners.”

“Well, it’s different when it’s the higher-ups!  It’s one thing to lock up some imp, but quite another to hold a prince of Hell captive!”

“You seem absolutely obsessed with the treatment of imps, Hastur.  Has it never occurred to you that imps have just as much individual character as you do?”

“What are you on about?” said Hastur.  “No imp has ever done anything important!”

Toby hissed.

“An imp killed the archdemon Agares,” said Maltha, half-amused.

Hastur’s face contorted into anger.  “That doesn’t count!”

“Of course it doesn’t.  How silly of me.”

“This is what I’m talking about!” shouted Hastur.  “It has to be that human woman!  She’s got your thinking all strange-like!  You didn’t used to go on about nonsense like imps being people!”

“I have learned,” said Maltha.  “It’s something you could stand to do every once in a while, Hastur.  All right, let’s try this a different way. You were loyal to Satan, correct?”

“Yes,” said Hastur.  “None of _you_ can say the same. Our Lord Satan—”

“A simple _yes_ would have sufficed,” said Maltha with a wave of her hand.  “Now, the son of Satan is the next logical ruler, correct?”

“Yes, not you!”

“If we think very, very hard, we might be able to think of a reason why Satan’s twelve-year-old son with no experience in Hell at all would need someone to help him.”

“You’re not helping him!” said Hastur.  “You’re manipulating him!  By now he should be bathing in the blood of his enemies!”

“All the changes I’ve made to Hell have been explicitly at Noah’s direction,” said Maltha.  “This is his doing.”

“Never!” said Hastur.  “Not my master’s son!  Anyone of Satan’s blood is noble and fearsome and—”

“Maltha,” interjected Mammon, who seemed to have made a command decision that the present conversation was going nowhere.  “I brought Duke Hastur out because when I captured him, I learned something about what happened to Beth.”  

Maltha’s feathers flared out and her pupils contracted.

Hastur’s expression took on a noticeable change, and he said, with mounting unease, “Untrue.  I had nothing to do with the fate of that lowly human.”

Toby hissed. Maltha’s claws slowly raked the wooden table.

“Isn’t it interesting,” said Maltha, “that someone who would willingly become of the consort of an archdemon would be deemed a pure and good enough soul to be granted entry to the Heavenly Kingdom?”

“Isn’t that what all humans want?” said Hastur.  “To go to Heaven?”

“Which would require someone _in Hell_ to bring her up high enough so that Heaven’s agents could reach her.  It’s almost like _somebody_ pulled some strings to move her about on purpose.  To anger me.”

“Well, I wish I had thought of it, but it wasn’t me.”

Toby flattened his ears and hissed.

“It was _you!_ ” Maltha thundered. “You sold me out to Heaven!”

“You needed to be taught a lesson!” Hastur raged.  “The ruler of Hell can’t be soft and preoccupied with things like _love!_ You’d let Heaven trample all over us!  You’re weak!  Soft!”

Maltha’s face contorted into the most frightening expression of anger anyone in the room had ever seen.  “Soft? _Soft?_  You don’t get to call me that like it’s an insult after what you did to Beth.”

Maltha stood.  The fear on Hastur’s face indicated he knew he had finally crossed a line past which he could not return.

“You despicable, vile creature.”  Maltha’s staff threw off tongues of black flame as she crossed the room. “You irredeemable, absolute piece of garbage.  You’re lower than any imp.”

“L-lord Maltha,” said Hastur as Maltha reached him and put her staff on his shoulder.  “I beg you to be merciful.”

“Sorry, but I can’t give you any mercy, because that would make me _soft._ ”

Maltha wound up and swung her staff like a baseball bat, hitting Hastur’s head with an audible _crack._ The force was so great that Hastur’s head detached from his body, flapping over and _thunk_ ing onto the ground with enough momentum that his body sprawled out several feet away.

Maltha stood there over his body, shaking with anger, breaths like growls.

Aziraphale, Crowley, and Angelo looked at each other, eyes wide.

Maltha took a moment to compose herself, her face returning to a blank mask. Her staff disappeared with a wave of her hand, and she snapped at an imp against the wall.  “Dispose of this.”

They fearfully acknowledged her order and dragged Hastur’s body and head out of the room.  Maltha strolled back to her seat, hiding her face in one hand.

“Are you all right?” said Crowley.

“I guess that answers that question,” Maltha laughed.  “I was wondering how Gabriel got ahold of her.”

A cigar materialised onto the table, and Maltha took it and lit it up. Nobody dared tell her Hell was a no-smoking zone.

Smoke trailed from the cigar as Maltha took a drag, as though trying to calm herself.

“Now, then,” she finally said.  “Duke Hastur is dead, and we can move on to more important things.”  She gestured to the parchment still laid out on the table.  “I received that letter from Gabriel the day before the Temple was destroyed.  I wrote him back and told him no war that destroys Creation would proceed under my command, even if remaining peaceful was at great personal expense to me.  I told him I would not destroy the Earth.  Ever.”  She took another drag of the cigar and exhaled a lungful of smoke.  “The next day the Temple fell and—surprise!—the war was on anyway, without my consent.”

An imp came up and whispered something into her ear.

“Oh, yes, good,” said Maltha.  “Go get that special drink from the kitchen, would you?”

The servant scampered off.  Maltha returned her attention to the table, stubbing her cigar out with a sigh, as though she had not gotten to enjoy it enough.

“You were going to let Heaven just get away with what they did?” said Crowley.

“Sitting around doing nothing during all this chaos doesn’t seem very _you_ ,” said Aziraphale.

The servant returned with a jug and began to pour something into Maltha’s goblet. The liquid was dusty white, and it seemed to glow faintly.

“Thank you, Yulera,” said Maltha.

The servant retreated to the wall, still holding the jug and watching the conversation with interest.

Maltha examined her goblet, then picked a feather off the rim.  “Oh, I’m not doing _nothing_ ,” she said.  “I have, in fact, formed a pact with a group that has promised to help me get Beth back. Apparently, Beth was taken into Heaven without actually _dying_.  Which means she is not technically _dead_ , and still has a corporeal form that can be removed from Heaven with her consent.”

She lifted the goblet and took a sip.  An expression of intense disgust overcame her features, but instead of setting it back on the table, she turned the cup bottoms-up and gulped it down.

“What’s that you’re drinking?” said Crowley.

“This is the foulest thing I’ve ever tasted,” said Maltha.  “How much of this do I have to drink?”

“I was told the whole jug, lord,” said the imp.

She scowled and held her cup out for a refill.  They watched in confusion as she audibly gagged, but forced herself to keep drinking.

“But back to the pact,” Aziraphale prompted.  “With whom was it, exactly?”

Maltha tipped her glass to get the dregs at the bottom.  When she removed the goblet, there was a corner of a feather sticking out of her snaggle-toothed grin.  “A faction from within Heaven itself.”

* * *

“What is she _doing_?”

Abraxas idly played with her sword and answered, “She was having dinner with Aziraphale and Crowley and that other angel, what’s-his-face, wasn’t she?”

“She knows we’re all out here waiting, right?” said Paula. “That we’re on a bit of a timetable here?”

“I think she’s telling them what’s going on,” said Abraxas.  “It’d be important for Angelo to know, at the very least.  It’s a good thing he’s here.  It’ll make things go a lot easier when Michael comes down.”

“Yeah, if Michael doesn’t try to kill the poor guy again,” said Paula. She stood on tiptoe and looked through the crack in the door to see into the dining hall.  “They’re all still in there.  Is she trying to recruit Aziraphale?  I thought she had given up on that idea.  And it’s a bit late now, innit?”

“Crowley might want to go.”

“Crowley just got his arm melted off in Heaven.  I don’t think he’ll be eager to go back there without a very strong motivation.”

A servant approached the pair with a crystal goblet and tried to hand it to Abraxas.  “Hm?” said Abraxas.  “What’s this?”

“It’s the...” the servant said, struggling to find the right words.

Abraxas turned to him fully now.  “Oh!  It’s that? It’s the liquid version of the angel dust spell?”

The servant nodded.  Abraxas took the goblet from him.  “Great!” She held it up to the light, the liquid glowing faintly with bits specks of light.  “Ooooh, neat.”

She raised the goblet to her lips.  An expression of intense disgust overcame her features.  “Ew,” she said.  “This tastes like I’m eating hair.  How much do I have to drink?”

“I was told to make sure you drink the entire glass,” the servant said.

Abraxas grimaced, then continued trying to choke down the distasteful concoction.

“Geez,” said Paula.  “If a little guy like you has to drink a whole glass, how much does _Maltha_ have to drink?”

* * *

They eventually lost track of how many glasses of that hated drink Maltha consumed. She was pounding down whatever was in that jug with as much as vigor as she normally took alcohol, except every sip was accompanied by a heave and a gag.  It obviously took a great deal of willpower to force it down her throat, and yet she kept going as though her life depended on it.

“You’re saying a group from Heaven has allied with you?” Aziraphale pressed.

Maltha put her hand on her mouth, closing her eyes.  She swallowed.  “Yulera, how much is left?”

“We have two more jars in the kitchen.”

“How much is left that _I_ have to drink?”

The servant peered into the jug.  “Looks to be about two glasses, lord.”

“Excellent,” she huffed.

“Maltha,” said Aziraphale.  “Focus. Please.  There’s a group in Heaven that’s broken away?”

“And quite a large one, too,” said Maltha.

“And they allied with a _demon?_ What you are saying basically amounts to a second rebellion, Maltha. That many angels helping you go against Heaven.”

Maltha peered at him from over her goblet.

“Maltha?”

“Let me ask you a question,” said Maltha.  She took another sip.  “That day that Crowley’s field agent counterparts all showed up in your shop and pledged loyalty to you—did it never occur to you that _your_ angelic neighbours might have done something similar if given the opportunity?”

Aziraphale stared at her.

“When Victoria raged about how unfair Michael’s fate was, when she cried because she was so scared for him—did you think she was the only one?  When Kyleth warned you to stay away from Gabriel because she considered him dangerous—did you think others did not see that?  When Olivia said she was _so fed up_ with Heaven’s bullshite she would be willing to openly disobey—did you think you were the only angel capable of actually doing so?”

“The pact you made with them,” said Crowley.  “Their end of the bargain would be to help you get Beth out of Heaven. And your end of the bargain would be—”

“To help them rebel!” Maltha crowed, throwing her hands up in the air giddily.  “A good old-fashioned rebellion, a coup, the likes of which Creation has not seen since good old Lucifer himself rose up and decided _he_ should be in charge instead.”

Aziraphale slammed his hands on the table stormily.  “Are you mad?  That’ll never work.  Have you forgotten how the last _rebellion_ ended?  It resulted in the creation of an entire _race_ of wretched fallen angels and Hell! Imagine what is going to happen _this_ time!”

A giggle vibrated in Maltha’s throat.  “What’s going to happen _this time_ is we’re going to win, Aziraphale.  Because the last time, who was the one to overpower the leader of the rebel angels and cast them into Hell?”

“M-Michael…” said Angelo.

“Michael can still be deployed to defeat you,” said Aziraphale.  “He hasn’t fallen yet.  It’s not going to happen.”

Maltha pointed to Angelo, curling her finger, inviting him.

“He _is_ going to fall,” warbled Angelo. “They sealed his sentence this morning.”

“What!” exclaimed Aziraphale.

“No way,” said Crowley. “No _way._ Raphael had such a flimsy case. You’re telling me that _worked?_ ”

“It was never about Raphael’s case,” said Maltha. “Raphael was only using that as a smokescreen to hide the fact that he had consulted with me.”

Aziraphale processed this for a moment.  “Raphael…consulted with you?”

“Yes.  I had the chance to diagnose Michael from our time together in your bookshop, Aziraphale.”

“..Diagnose?  Is he sick?”

“…Honestly, Aziraphale.”  Maltha distastefully drank more from her goblet.  “Yes.  His aura was a broken, jagged mess.  His connection to Heaven and the pull to his duty is destroying him.  Did you think he was right as rain as he was driven mad by hunger to kill in your bookshop?”

“Well, n-no, not really,” said Aziraphale.  “It obviously caused him a great deal of distress, but that’s just who he is.”

Maltha sipped again.  “Yes. It is, in fact, who he is.  Michael was designed from the very beginning to be the Sword of Heaven.  He was _designed_ for it, and part of that role was his crucial part to play in the apocalypse. And when it kept getting pushed back and pushed back, he began to deteriorate.  He was never meant to survive the war. He was intended to be a bomb that would ignite to destroy Hell.”

Aziraphale stood.  “That’s not true.  I refuse to believe that.”

Maltha took Toby’s shoulders and stood him up, using his little paw to wave at Aziraphale.  He let out a faint _mrrow_ , but did not hiss.

Disgruntled, Aziraphale reseated himself, disquiet growing.

“Raphael shared this information with me when he came down,” said Maltha. “Together, the two of us were able to work out a diagnosis.  The only two options for Michael seemed to be either to become a mindless killing machine and be consumed by the war, or decay in peacetime and fade away.  But we laid plans for a third option.”

“Falling,” said Crowley.

Maltha held her goblet out for a refill, then continued to drink. When she set her glass down, she said, “Do you know what actually happens when an angel falls?”

“You’re removed from the Book of Life,” said Crowley quietly.  “And permanently cast out from Heaven.”

“Your old identity is erased,” said Maltha.  “You are reborn.  Without the baggage of whatever your angelic role was in Heaven.  You become divorced from your intended purpose.  When Michael is cast out of Heaven, his fate will be re-written.  He does not have to participate in the apocalypse. He can continue living, and be freed from his bloodlust.  He will become someone entirely new, someone who is not bound to Heaven and what was making him sick and warping him.”

“And conveniently be put under your command,” said Aziraphale darkly.

Maltha grinned.  “Now imagine that.  Maltha and the archangel Michael, against Heaven _together_.  Isn’t that just such a pretty image you could paint a picture of it?  You feared Michael, when he fell, would destroy the Earth, but his anger will be let loose back on Heaven, not on Earth.”  

“Michael isn’t going to be so quick to turn on Heaven, even after he’s cast out,” said Aziraphale.  “He values loyalty.  He won’t listen to you.”

Maltha waved her hand on the table, and an enormous stack of papers appeared.  “But he will,” she said, “because I will be giving him the opportunity to do something he has wanted to do for a very long time.”

They peered over at the papers, shuffling through them.  They were all forms, partially filled out, all stamped with DENIED.

“What are these?”

“All 6,000 of Michael’s yearly requests for re-assignment on Earth.”

They both looked up at her in amazement.  “The other archangels have kept it very well hidden exactly how much they abuse Michael,” she said.  “They never let him out of Heaven.  Every instance Michael has left has been against their wishes, and he has been punished for it every time.  Even though they’re the same rank, should have the same power—Michael was never given any control, not even over himself. He would without fail try to protest that they’re the same rank, and the other archangels would find ways to manipulate him anyway, regardless of what _he_ wants.  I think Raphael is the only one who ever argued that he should be allowed to do missions on Earth like he wanted to.  Michael is an attack dog, and they never hesitated to pull that leash when he got out of hand.”

Angelo suddenly stood, looking very red.  “Who told you this?  How did you find this out?”

Maltha looked the little angel over knowingly.  “Some of Michael’s most loyal warriors are here with me.  They know what is happening.”  

“Vincent…” said Angelo.

Maltha nodded.  “Vincent was the first warrior to break away, but others followed soon enough.  As news began to spread that Gabriel was the one who had destroyed the Temple, the rebellion grew with it.  The ranks of angels here with me in Hell ready to turn against Heaven include field agents, principalities and warriors who want to save the Earth, along with angels from among Michael’s ranks who were on board with Raphael’s plan to save him.  Michael will be met by a company of his closest friends and allies as soon as he falls, arriving in Hell an honoured guest.”

It all made sense now.  Raphael’s rabid insistence on Michael falling despite that Michael was the brother who Raphael loved the most.  Raphael was prioritising Michael’s personal well-being over his function as a weapon. He could never admit that for fear of being thrown out himself as a traitor, because Heaven couldn’t afford to lose him if they were to win the war.

Which might explain why Gabriel was so desperate to start to the war that he would order angels to destroy the Temple.  If Michael was dying, it was now or never.  But instead of relenting and putting Michael back on the front lines, Raphael had dug his heels in and fought even harder to get Michael out of Heaven and away from the war that would kill him.  Against the unified forces of Uriel, Gabriel, and Metatron, who were willing to sacrifice Michael.

Which would also explain why Victoria reversed positions so suddenly. She fought to defend Michael in both cases.  All Raphael would have to do would be to take her aside and share that Michael would die unless he fell, knowing she would take his side but keep his motivation a secret. Learning that Michael would only survive if he fell would be enough to make Victoria do a one-eighty if she was also putting Michael’s well-being first.

Which, given her tearful visit over smashed teacups with Aziraphale, she definitely was.

“Okay,” said Aziraphale.  “Fine. Michael is going to Fall, and it’ll save his life, and he’ll be on Hell’s side. That doesn’t—”

“ _Sides_ ,” said Maltha.  “You’re still thinking in terms of _sides._ ” She slammed her hand on the table. “There are no _sides_ anymore, Aziraphale.  You can cling to the idea that Heaven is your side all you want, but if you look deep down inside yourself, I think you’ll realise you’ve been on your _own_ side all along, working for your own self-interest, and everything else was just to dress it up to make yourself feel better.  Good vs Evil. God’s will.  Ineffability.  None of it means anything to you, unless it’s convenient for it to do so.”

Her words cut him inside.  He was angry. He gestured wildly. “Okay, fine! But what exactly are you going to do? The war is your only option for getting back at Heaven, and you’ve made it quite clear you don’t want to destroy Earth!”

And here Maltha’s face broke into a smile that showed a mouthful of canine teeth. “Why, we are going to go into Heaven using the angel dust spell and punish the archangels directly, of course.”

Aziraphale sat in stunned silence.

“They think themselves safe in their fortress.  A demon, no matter how powerful, cannot conduct an assault on Heaven directly, and so would need to go through the Earth to get to them, through the war.  Or so was their logic.  And they wanted to watch me rampage from a safe distance, while others bore their suffering for them, as the natural order has always been.  No more.”

“But the angel dust spell would never work for something like that!” said Aziraphale.  “When Crowley used it, it rubbed off at the slightest provocation!  You could never take part in combat with that on!  This will never work!  This is suicide, Maltha!”

Maltha listened with her eyes on the ceiling.  “Aziraphale.  Please give me some credit.  We have been making modifications to the angel dust spell.  You used the version Agares had—which would have never worked for her for her purposes.  While Raphael worked in Heaven, we’ve been busy down here doing intensive testing with angel feathers.  And we’ve made a new version of the spell.”

Maltha pushed her goblet towards them.  Aziraphale and Crowley peered into it, to see…

Bits of feathery down floating in it.

“You’ve made an ingestible version,” said Crowley.

“Our experiments so far show this version takes about half an hour to kick in, but it provides the same protection,” said Maltha.  “And the effects last a few hours.”

She took the goblet and drained it, then held it out for a refill.

“That’s all, lord,” said the servant.

“Thank somebody,” said Maltha.  “Then I think we’re ready.”

“You can’t do this, Maltha,” said Aziraphale.  “You can’t storm Heaven.”

“Aziraphale,” said Maltha, “I am only going to explain this to you one time. There are currently three threats to the Earth’s continued survival.  And their names are—”  She held up a finger.  “Gabriel.” Another finger.  “Uriel.”  A third finger.  “And Metatron.”  She closed her fist.  “Raphael has no strong opinions about the war.  Victoria just wants Michael to be safe.  And Azrael does not care about anything going on in Heaven.  If we eliminate those three, the Earth will be safe—forever. No war, ever.  And you find yourself suddenly morally opposed to the idea of eliminating those who would do the Earth harm—why?  Because you did not think of it yourself?”

“You think you can just walk into Heaven and destroy half its archangels?”

“What exactly is stopping us?”

“Heaven needs those three to function.  If you kill them, it will throw Heaven into the kind of chaos Hell is in. That Earth is in.”

“Then so be it,” said Maltha.  

“ _So be it?_ ” said Aziraphale. “Is that all you have to say for yourself?”

“Let her do it.”

Aziraphale turned to look at who had spoken.  It was Crowley.  

“You!” said Aziraphale, aghast.  “I-I-!   _Let her do it?_ ”

Crowley’s gaze fell to the table, away from him.  

Aziraphale, enraged, looked from Crowley to Angelo for support, but the other angel wouldn’t meet his eyes either.  Seething, in inner turmoil, he tried, “God won’t let you.  You’ll be killed.  This can only end in disaster.”

“God has not found it appropriate to intervene on any of our behalves for millennia!” Maltha raged.  “He has not seen fit to stop us up to this point!  Why should He take action now?  I’m sure not even _this_ will prompt Him to deign to acknowledge me!”  Maltha threw her goblet, and it shattered on the floor.  “He thinks He is so far above us, too good to take care of us, we’ll _make_ Him notice!”

The tone in Maltha’s voice and her action startled Toby, who bolted from her lap and streaked out the door.  Aziraphale’s heart was beating in his throat.  “You’ll be killed.  All of you. Or something worse, something worse than falling that hasn’t been invented yet.  You think—you think you can do something like this?  What gives you the right?  The nerve.  The arrogance.”

Maltha was staring at him now.  “Aziraphale….did you know?  That is exactly what _He_ said to me.”

Aziraphale stopped, unease growing in his stomach.  “He…?”

“’The arrogance.’  He said that exact phrase to me, right before He cast me out of Heaven.”

Aziraphale flushed red.  Crowley was staring at his lap.

“I-I have half a mind to go up to Heaven and tell them you’re coming!” Aziraphale burst out.

Maltha leaned her head onto her fist.  “There it is.  The reason why I didn’t tell you what was happening down here in Hell.”

Aziraphale’s mouth tried to form words, but nothing came.

“This is the problem, Aziraphale.  You’re very intelligent. But you do not _think._ You act on impulse.  And you worry about the consequences later, when it’s too late to take anything back.”

Impulse. Listening to Crowley talk about the Earth had been enough to convince him to save it.  Trying to push Shadwell out of the circle, then madly body-hopping to try and get back down to Earth regardless of the consequences.  Stabbing an archdemon through the chest after being told not to. Making a deal for asylum without consulting Crowley first.  And what he had just done in his anger, in his fear.

Maltha continued, “And that is precisely why I waited until you were here, where you couldn’t go running off to Heaven on a whim, to tell you what was going to happen, because it was of paramount importance this plot be kept under wraps until it was ready to be deployed.”

Aziraphale hid his face in his hands, regaining his seat.

The door creaked open.  A demon with red hair slunk into the room. “’Scuse me,” she said.

“You!” Aziraphale shouted, his chair scraping back as he leapt up.  “You little bitch!  I told you not to give the angel dust spell to anyone!  And you gave it to the one person you knew would make use of it to harm Heaven!”

Abraxas shrank back. The door pushed open further, this time by an angry hand, and Paula appeared, moving herself in front of Abraxas.  “You focking arsehole,” said Paula.  “ _I_ gave the spell to Maltha.  Not her.”

Aziraphale looked back and forth between the two of them.

“You thought this was Hell’s plan?” said Paula.  “You think we were tricked by demons into betraying Heaven? This is _our_ doing.  We initiated it.  We decided to rebel.  We just needed someone powerful enough to take on the archangels to help us.”

“You’re a traitor.”

“Come _on_ , Aziraphale,” said Paula. “You know this has to happen. Maybe you haven’t come to terms with it yet and just need some time, but you know deep down this was a long time coming.”

A third figure muscled them both out of the way, and a warrior stuck his head into the room.  “Lord Maltha,” he said, “what Abraxas was trying to say was that Michael could fall at any moment, and time is beginning to run out.  You need to get into your armor and prepare to move out.”

“Right,” said Maltha.  She stood and began to make her way across the room.  “So what’ll it be, Aziraphale?”

“No,” he said.  “Absolutely not.  I won’t allow it.”

She clucked her tongue.  “I was afraid of that.  Then it can’t be helped; you’ll have to stay here until we’re finished.”

“You’re going to keep us prisoner here?”

“I’m glad you caught on so fast. Mammon, please escort Aziraphale to a holding cell.”

“You’re going to keep us here by force?” Aziraphale exclaimed.  “Maltha, this is—this is not how you treat your friends!”

Mammon’s snout bumped Aziraphale’s back, and he whirled around, looking indignant.  “Don’t you touch me!”

“Let’s go.”

“I’m still a heavenly soldier,” said Aziraphale, reaching his hand into the aether and grasping the hilt of his sword.  “And you will not—”

The second the blade became visible, Maltha practically teleported to close the distance between them, smacking the weapon out of his hand with such force that it flew across the room.  Her enormous clawed hand gripped his wrist tightly, drawing five small streams of blood.

“ _You_ will not, Aziraphale,” said Maltha, a throaty, whispered threat.  “Do not even think of it.  All the pieces in this chess game have been arranged precisely.  It will not all topple down because of the ignorant indignation of a principality offended because I _hurt his feelings._ ”

“This is about more than my _feelings,_ Maltha.”

“You will have an eternity to see what I’m doing, Aziraphale, once the Earth is safe.”

Mammon herded Aziraphale towards the exit.  Maltha came back to the table, where Angelo and Crowley were still sitting fearfully.

She put one hand on the backs of each of their chairs. “Crowley,” she said, more gently, “I would like you to stay here as well.  We’re going to put up wards, and Mammon is going to come back down here to hold the ninth layer while we’re all gone.  You’ll be safe.”

Shakily, without a further word, Crowley stood and followed Mammon.

“And Angelo,” began Maltha.

“You’re just going to use him,” Angelo wept.  “That’s all anyone ever does.  I won’t let you.”

“Angelo,” said Maltha, softer now.  “I’m not going to make him do anything he doesn’t want to do.  Part of the entire point of these angels’ rebellion is they thought he deserved better.  They would not _let_ me, even if I wanted to force him.  But you know him better than any of us.  What do you think he’ll want to do with his newfound freedom?”

Angelo looked down. “Rebel,” he said.

“Would you like to come up with us?  Would you like to see him?”

He nodded miserably.

“Then come on.”

Meanwhile Aziraphale had been forced into the antechamber, and when he came out he saw them, the rebel angels.  All decked out in shining armor, weapons ready, some with half-plucked wings. He was shocked to recognise most of them.  His principality neighbours.  The group of fourteen angels Michael had chosen to accompany him in Aziraphale’s shop. Some of Camael’s, now Victoria’s, soldiers.  Almost all of the powers under Michael.  Olivia and Kyleth were right at the front; Kyleth gave him a sheepish wave when he came out.

“Traitors!” he shouted.  “All of you! God will smite you!  Think about what you’re doing!”

Kyleth put her hand down.

As soon as Maltha came into the room, Vincent stepped forwards and said, “Lord Maltha, we’ve brought your armor.  Are you ready to begin?”

“Yes,” said Maltha.

She held out her arms and let a warrior strap on her breast plate. Another knelt to fasten greaves onto her legs.

“Look at yourselves,” said Aziraphale.  “Helping a demon prepare for battle.”

“Now I see why you didn’t fall in the first rebellion, Aziraphale,” said Maltha, still holding her arms out, not looking at him.  “I had always wondered.  You see the injustice, and you question, and you want it to be better. But you’d rather be comfortable. And it’s easier to say they’re traitors than to admit you should be standing where they are.”

Aziraphale said nothing, watching as they fastened hinged armored plates to her wings.

“Mammon,” said Maltha.  “Please take him into the holding cell in the Northeast wing.  I don’t think Aziraphale wants to watch any more.”

“Yes, lord.”

Whether he had finally been shamed into silence, or he was just tired of yelling, Aziraphale kept quiet as he was led out.

An angel came over with her helmet.  “He’ll come around,” he said.

“I hope he will,” she said, rubbing her finger along the helm of the helmet.  “And I just hope he will forgive me.  Nobody from Heaven ever has much forgiveness in them.”

An angel came over with the final piece, the blackened crown Satan had worn for millennia.  “Would you like to wear the crown, lord?”

Maltha looked from the helmet to the crown.

“No,” she finally answered, accepting the helmet.  “I’m not doing this as Maltha Queen of Hell.  I’m doing this as Miriam, the royally pissed off archangel who never does as she’s told, back for another rebellion against the Heavenly Kingdom.”

Her armored wings swept behind her like a cape as she turned to lead the way out of the ninth circle of Hell.

* * *

The ceremony for casting an angel out of Heaven took place in an impressive golden room, the architecture of which was centred around a podium upon which sat one of the most important holy artefacts in existence: The Book of Life, a volume so huge and complex that any human looking at it could barely comprehend it.

Aziraphale would be far more than weak-kneed if he had ever seen it.  He never had, and he was lucky for that, because the only circumstances under which he would have laid eyes upon it would be if he were to be cast out of Heaven.

In another universe, maybe, in another timeline.  But not in this one.

It was not Aziraphale, but Michael sitting the judgement seat in this time and place.  And Uriel stood opposite him, at the podium behind the book.  Gabriel, Raphael, Victoria, and Metatron were seated behind her in a half-moon shape at their seats at the bench.  Azrael’s seat was empty, because Azrael was quite rude and always ignored his summons, but he had already given them what they needed to proceed without him.

“I can’t stand the way he’s _looking_ at me,” said Uriel, throwing her hands up. “I can’t pass judgement on someone who isn’t even aware of what’s going on.”

“Raphael,” said Metatron, “Please remove some of the drugs you have given Michael so that he can actually witness the proceedings.”

“Michael may become violent if I do that.”

“He is restrained with binding sigils.  Not even he can break those.”

Raphael hopped down from the dais, approaching the pit below to put a hand on Michael’s head.  Michael looked up at him with dull eyes.

His eyes began to widen as he realised where he was.

“I’m so sorry, brother,” said Raphael.

“Raphael,” said Michael, voice hoarse.  “You said you were going to help me.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“Raphael.”

“I’ll meet you down there,” Raphael whispered to him, and put a small kiss on top of his head.  Michael watched, the confusion in his eyes turning to desperation.

Raphael regained his place next to Uriel.

“Raphael,” said Michael.  “You can’t save me?”

“This will save you,” said Raphael.

Michael’s eyes flew across the line of archangels, none of whom looked very happy.  Victoria was in full-blown tears already.

“Uriel,” Michael said.  “Please don’t.”

“We shall begin now,” said Uriel.  “This meeting of archangels in the Judgement Hall of God convenes regarding the fate of the archangel Michael.”

“Uriel, wait.”  Michael tried to stand on wobbly legs, but what remained of the sedatives held him back, and the holy guardians in the room gently pushed him back into a kneeling position.  “This is just to scare me, right?  To get me to listen to you like you’ve always done? This isn’t real, right?”

“This proclamation has been agreed upon by the archangels Uriel, Metatron, Gabriel, Raphael, Victoria, and Azrael: that we are united against our seventh member, the archangel Michael, and declare that his crimes are too numerous and too heinous to be allowed to stand.”

“N-no!” cried Michael.  “I said I was sorry.  I’ll behave. I’ll do whatever you say.  Uriel, I’ll cut my hair.”

“Therefore,” continued Uriel, absolutely stone-faced, “Heaven decrees the archangel Michael belongs in the company of the beasts of the Pit, and not with our Heavenly Father.”

“Gabriel,” said Michael, tears streaming down his cheeks, “you can take my body back.  I’ll give it to you.  I won’t see Angelo anymore.  I’ll stay in Heaven by the throne room where I’m supposed to be.  I’ll stay right there.”

“It’s far too late for that,” said Gabriel.  “This wouldn’t have happened if you had just done what you were told from the beginning.  You bring shame to your station, and to all of us, you damnable creature.”

Michael’s gaze swung to Metatron. “I’ll do what you say,” he sobbed. “Please don’t cast me out.  I’m sorry. I’m sorry.  Metatron, I won’t question the ineffable plan anymore. I’ll kill every demon I see.  I will.”

The Metatron refused to meet his eyes.  “What use are you now?”

Victoria had her hands on her face to try and hide her tears, but her racking body gave it away.

Uriel lifted her hands above the Book of Life, and it glowed faintly, flipping open of its own accord, thousands of pages whirring too fast for the eye to see, until it slammed open to Michael’s page.

“I’ll be good,” Michael warbled.  “I’ll obey.  Don’t cast me out. Please.”

Uriel took the corner of the page.  “This is the end,” she said, voice more quiet. “We are truly on our own path now. You will never step foot in Heaven again, Michael.”

She tore the page out.  Michael flinched as though the action caused him pain.

“And I want to be clear that I have no sympathy for you whatsoever,” said Uriel.  “Those who would defy their fate deserve exactly this.  You all may share some sentimentality about this, but I would rather see Creation shatter and every deviant angel be cast into the Pit than see any of this foolishness that has wrecked the Ineffable Plan continue.”

Uriel held the page up, that thread of creation that dictated Michael’s entire being.  The page upon which his destiny as the Sword of Heaven was written.  Michael’s wet eyes followed it desperately.  

“Burn,” Raphael said quietly.  “Be free.”

“And you’ll burn with the rest of them,” said Uriel.

A tongue of flame appeared at the bottom of the page, racing up it.

“On this,” said Uriel, “the sunset of God’s creation.”


	12. The New Archdemon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On tumblr at http://not-a-space-alien.tumblr.com/post/164274247635/falling-hazard-part-12-the-new-archdemon

 

The war party’s progress was halted in the fifth circle.

This annoyed Maltha to no end.  It was annoying to have to give a signal for those behind her to stop when they had just gotten going, but it was even more annoying to her that this group consistently thought, for some god-forsaken reason, that they had enough power to overthrow her.

Maltha held her hand up to halt the group behind her, armor clinking as everyone came to a standstill.  She eyed the roadblock:  A large group of demons of varying ranks, with a few higher-levels thrown in. And at the very front was a figure wrapped tightly with inexpertly administered bandages.

“Duke Jezebel,” said Maltha.

The duke looked very angry.  “You will proceed no further!  We settle this now!”

Maltha’s hellhorse pawed at the ground under her, snorting.  “All right,” she said mildly.  “Very well.  You may speak.”

Jezebel looked surprised.  “Er…all right!  Maltha, we know that you’ve orchestrated the fall of the archangel Michael and are planning to use him for your own purposes!”

“I have, and I am,” said Maltha.

Jezebel paused, as though she hadn’t expected it to be so easy to get Maltha to admit it.  “Ah… Well, whatever it is you’re planning on doing, forget it! We’re going to get him first and use him for _our_ schemes!”

“Duke Hastur was the brains of this operation, wasn’t he?” said Maltha. “Remove him from the equation and everything falls apart.”

“It hasn’t fallen apart!” said Jezebel.  “We’re right here!”

“I said Duke Hastur must have been the brains because it certainly couldn’t have been _you_ , Jezebel. If you wanted to seize the archangel Michael as he fell, you should have tried to beat us to him in Limbo, rather than stopping us halfway with a much weaker force.”

Jezebel’s eyes roved Maltha’s forces, and then she flew into a silent rage when she realised Maltha was right.

“Well, never mind that!” Jezebel finally yelled.  “We have demands!  I demand that you listen to my demands!”

Maltha smiled politely.  “All right. I’ll listen to them.”

“What? Really?”

“Of course.  What kind of ruler doesn’t listen to their subjects?”

Jezebel drew herself up.  “All right, then!  Our first demand is that you release Duke Hastur to us!”

“All right,” said Maltha, not dropping her smile.  “If that’s what you really want.”

The renegade demons all look at each other, murmuring unsurely.  Jezebel watched her with suspicion.

Maltha turned.  “Mammon, would you be so kind as to summon Duke Hastur from wherever they’ve put him?”

“Of course, lord.”

Maltha held out her hand.

“What are you playing at?” Jezebel said.

Hastur’s decapitated head materialised into her grip, and she held it up.

She was met with dead silence.

Maltha’s horse trotted lightly across the line, all eyes following her. “Oh, isn’t this what you wanted?” she said sweetly. “A _proper_ demon lord who shows no mercy?”

When no one responded, she tossed the head.  It rolled towards Jezebel before stopping, eyelids drooping and jaw slack on the ground.  The demons towards the front of the company gasped and drew back slightly.  Jezebel looked at it with incredible anger.

Maltha’s smile finally dissolved into a stony expression.  “You’ve reached the line past which my patience expires, all of you.  You will be treated with the same respect, or lack thereof, that you show me.  I don’t have time to fuck around with you anymore. Have I made myself absolutely clear?”

The rest of whatever Jezebel’s demands might have been were not forthcoming. The demons behind her began to disperse slowly with shocked whispers.

“Come back here, you cowards!” Jezebel screamed.  When they scattered away from her instead of regrouping, she turned back to Maltha, growling in frustration.  “You won’t get away with this!”

Maltha crossed her arms.  “All right.”

“Stop it! Stop that!”

“Stop what?  I’m just standing here.”

Jezebel stomped her feet.  “You’re infuriating!  You’ll pay for this!  You will!”

“All right.”

The last of her support finally bolted, leaving Jezebel standing alone. Her eyes raked over the opposing group.

“I see your snake and that angel with him aren’t here,” she said with some attempt at menace.  “It would be unfortunate if something _happened_ to them.”

“I have erected barriers a mile thick around them with the help of my most clever spellcaster.  They are formulated to only permit entry to Aziraphale and Crowley’s allies, which _you_ would not be considered by any stretch of the imagination.”

“We’ll see about that!”

“Jezebel, I would much prefer not to kill you as well, but you’re not leaving me much of a choice.”

Jezebel stepped forwards, as if to try and pass her.  Maltha steered her horse to block her path.  Jezebel side-stepped to try and get around her, but Maltha moved to match.

“Fine!” Jezebel yelled, whirling around and stomping away.  “But you’ll regret this!  I promise you will!”

The path up out of Hell was finally clear as Maltha watched the last rebel go.  “I’m sure I’ll regret many things about today,” she said quietly.  “But I don’t think your tantrum will be one of them.”

* * *

The sky was beginning to darken on Earth.  A pair of stargazers leaned on each other, watching as the dots of light mottling the night canvas began to come on one by one.

“Sure is beautiful, isn’t it?” said one.

“Not as beautiful as you,” said the other.

They snuggled together, just watching.  A shooting star winked across their field of view, a small and enormously bright object impossibly far away, or so they thought.  They were too far away to hear it screaming.  

* * *

“Good, he’s not here yet.”

Maltha dismounted from her hellhorse, examining the terrain of Limbo for the telltale crater that heralded the arrival of a newly fallen angel. The only one they could find was old and already had grass growing in it, which she guessed would have been Kabata’s.

Maltha found a small molehill and stood on it, clapping to get everyone’s attention.  “All right, everyone, listen up, we’re going to do this exactly as planned or we’ll increase our chances of failing.  First of all, does everyone have their rebellion buddy?”

They all looked at each other.

“We’re using the buddy system. If you don’t already have one, find one now.”

There was murmuring and shuffling around.

“All right.  Now, we’ll go into Heaven as two groups.  The party that breaks off with me will consist of six warriors, who can supervise me to make sure I do nothing outside of our agreement, as discussed earlier. Where is Paula.  Paula?”

Paula raised her hand.

“You’ll have a group of principalities with you to supervise Abraxas the same way.  We want plenty of witnesses around to corroborate if anyone in Heaven tries to accuse the demons in the party of something we did not do.  It is essential we refrain from collateral damage if we are to keep this attack from dissolving into a full-scale war.  We do the attack, we leave Heaven crippled, and we show the other angels they should be on _our_ side, not the archangels’.  Is that clear to everyone?”

A smattering of assents drifted up.

“All right.  The main party with Michael will attack Gabriel, Uriel, and then Metatron, in that order.  Gabriel’s section of Heaven is closest to the gate, so he should go down first.  Uriel should be further inside Heaven and shouldn’t reach us until Gabriel is out of the way.”  She took a deep breath.  “And Metatron will probably be either in the throne room, or in the antechamber for the Book of Life.  We’ll deal with that when we get to it. We’ll communicate long-distance via the smoke signals.  Green for Gabriel, yellow for Uriel, red for Metatron.  First signal means located.  Second signal means terminated.  My group will rejoin the main party once Beth has been retrieved, heading for the latest smoke signal.  I don’t anticipate needing to use it, but send up the blue smoke signal if Michael’s group becomes overwhelmed and you need my support, and we’ll break off and re-strategise.  The raid is over as soon as Metatron is dead.  The principalities will fan out ahead of the war party to get bystanders out of the way and minimise collateral damage.  Anyone resisting or challenging us should be left to me and Michael and our support. I understand we only have one healer here, correct?”

A hand stuck up from the crowd.

“Good, hello.  What’s your name, dear?”

“Ramial.”

“Ramial, make sure you stay with Michael’s party.  My group is smaller and I should be able to manage keeping everyone alive. Now, where is Angelo?  There you are.  Come up to the front, please.  Okay, come on now, I know you can move faster than that.”

Everyone there who knew Angelo knew that the face he was making right now was the one he made when he was absolutely terrified beyond all reason, and they admired the fact that he came up to face Maltha anyway.

Maltha bent down so that she could talk quietly enough for only him to hear. “You want to comfort Michael after he falls?”

Angelo nodded mutely.

“Do you want to go back into Heaven with him?  Do you want to be part of the rebellion?”

Angelo didn’t answer.

“I won’t judge you for your answer, Angelo.  This is different than watching him cut down a bunch of demons.”

He slowly shook his head.

Maltha squeezed his shoulder.  “All right. That’s all right, then.  No worries.”

“Here he comes!” shouted someone.

All eyes turned up to the entrance to Hell, where something was beginning to burn closer and closer.

“All right, everyone!” Maltha said, turning away from Angelo.  “Any last-minute questions?”

No one answered.

“Then let’s get moving!”  A fireball plummeted into the cavern, streaking across the sky, illuminating her from behind with harsh yellow light.  “It’s show time.”

Angelo was the first to take off, running at top speed towards where the meteor had landed.  He could hear screaming the closer he got.

Maltha was lock-step beside him.  “Hurry, Angelo.  Don’t you want to be the first thing he sees?”

“Michael!” Angelo shouted.  “Michael, I’m here!”

“That’s not his name anymore,” said Maltha.

Angelo bit his lip. The crater of Michael’s landing came into view.  There was a creature in it writhing and howling at the top of its lungs, shape wavering and dissolving into something more bestial than man.  Angelo crested the mound and slid into the crater.

He felt himself yanked backwards, then realised he had just narrowly missed being disemboweled by the new archdemon’s claws as it thrashed around in panic.

“Have some sense,” Maltha said, setting him down.  “Don’t get yourself killed.”

The creature in the divot staggered backwards, yelling and crying, hands covering his face.  

“What’s his name?” said Angelo over the sobbing.

“Why don’t you ask him?” said Maltha.

Angelo approached again.  “Hey,” he said.

The new archdemon froze, stiff.  “A-Angelo? Is that you?”

“Yes,” said Angelo, almost falling over himself to take the demon’s arm. “Yes, I’m here.  I’m here.”

“Wh-where am I?  I c-can’t see.”

“You’re in Hell. We’re in Limbo.”

Maltha looked up to see an angel with blue wings spiraling down into the cavern. “Raphael, hurry up!” she said, spreading her arms to gesture to him.

“Oh no,” the nameless archdemon whimpered.  “No, no, no, no, this can’t be happening…”

“It’s all right.  We’re not in danger.  We’re safe. What’s your name?”

He did not respond, lip quavering.

“Hey, come on.  Such a strong, handsome man just falls out of the sky.  I’ve got to know his name.”

“M-Mykas,” he answered.

“That’s a nice name,” said Angelo tearfully.  He put a hand to the archdemon’s face.  “Nice to meet you.”

Raphael touched down and folded his wings.  “Did I miss anything?” he panted.

“I was just about to examine him.  Angelo, give us some room.”

Angelo took Mykas’s hand and stood to the side.  Mykas reached his other arm out to grope around blindly.  “I can’t see.”

“That will wear off soon enough,” said Maltha, removing her armored gloves and taking out a penlight.  She shined it into Mykas’s canine eyes, which dilated as wide as they would go.

Raphael approached from the other side, feeling his pulse.  “His shape seems stable already.”

Maltha tapped the top of Mykas’s head, where two brown ears had popped up from his hair. “Three guesses as to what his bestial form is.”

The two healers leaned over him to prod and poke.  Angelo squeezed Mykas’s hand. “They’re just checking you out to make sure you’re okay,” said Angelo. “Don’t worry.  Everything’s all right.”

“Did they hurt you?” said Mykas as Raphael took a blood sample with a small needle.  “Did I hurt you?  Are you hurt?”

“I’m fine.  Don’t worry about me.”

“Angelo, I’m scared.”

“There’s nothing to be afraid of.  We’re safe.”

“What’s going on?”

“Let’s examine his aura,” said Raphael.

“You might feel something,” said Angelo.  “Don’t worry.  They’re not going to hurt you.”

Mykas blinked rapidly, then gave a startled yelp as Raphael probed his aura.

“I-I…” said Raphael.

Maltha joined him.  “It’s…”

Mykas’s aura showed cracks, remnants of what had been happening to it, but it had welded back together in certain places, as though the heat of his fall had purged it from whatever had been breaking it down.  And most importantly: It felt stable under their probing, distinctly different than the volatile aura they had both seen before.

“It worked!” said Maltha.

The two turned, smacking each other with a high-five.

“Yes!”

“ _Yes!_ ”

Mykas squinted as his vision began to resolve.  Then, his eyes flew open directly on Raphael.

“Shit!” said Maltha, realizing what was about to happen.

With one mighty leap, Mykas threw himself at Raphael with jaws wide open, claws extended. Maltha moved in between the two just in time, her staff materializing for Mykas’s jaws to clamp onto.

“I thought you said he was better!” Angelo yelled over the snarling, too afraid to get any closer.

Maltha’s response could barely be heard over the screeching of his claws on her armor.  “He _is_ better!  Now he’s just pissed!”

“Raphael!” Mykas yelled, trying to ram his way through Maltha to get to the archangel.  “You said you were going to help me!  You abandoned me!  You let the other archangels throw me out!”

“Raphael is not your enemy!” Maltha shouted.  “Mammon, get Raphael out of here.”

Mammon trotted forwards and scooped Raphael up with her snout.  “Hey, wait!” said Raphael as he was carried off.

“Don’t _argue_ with me, boy,” said Maltha. Mykas had knocked her flat, and saliva dripping from between his toothy snarl oozed around her staff and dripped onto her face.  His jaws worked at her staff, trying to get past it to bite her head.

As soon as Mammon and Raphael were out of sight, a score of warriors rushed over to put their arms around Mykas, pulling him. Together with Maltha pushing, they managed to pry him off.  He stood flailing around in their arms, growling.

“Sir,” said one of them.

Mykas looked over to him, recognition finally dawning on his face. “Vincent?”

“Hello, sir,” said Vincent. “How are you feeling?”

Flicking an ear, Mykas looked around to the faces of the warriors around him. “Nathaniel....Dina...Jophiel...”  A lopsided smile slowly spread across his face, tongue lolling. “You’re all here.  Everyone’s here.”

Puffing, Maltha pushed herself to her feet.  “Raphael is not your enemy, Mykas.  No one here is.  We were all part of a plot to free you from Heaven.”

Mykas’s tail began to wag.  “Free from Heaven?”

Maltha spread her arms.  “What else would you call a demon, hm?”

Mykas looked over to Angelo, who tried to give him a reassuring nod.

Mykas broke free from their grasps, knocking Vincent to the ground and licking him.  “This is great!  Great! Great!  Wait.”  He raised his head.  “All these angels in Hell?  I’m sure Uriel wouldn’t like this very much.”

“You don’t have to worry about what Uriel wouldn’t like anymore!” Vincent laughed.  “And I know she doesn’t, because we’re all here to rebel against her and the others!”

Mykas looked down at him, cocking his head.  “Rebel?”

“You and I have been chosen for a great honour,” said Maltha.  “These angels gathered here have trusted us to lead their attack against Heaven.  When we are finished, the old authorities of Heaven will be gone. The Earth will be safe.  And we will all be free.  What do you say, Mykas?  Would you like to help us?”

“Go on...”  Mykas’s lip peeled back, showing wicked teeth like icicles.  “This sounds fun.”

* * *

The room Maltha had locked them in was actually quite nice:  It was carpeted and furnished with a bed and comfortable chairs.  But the only thing Aziraphale was focused on was the item of the locked door.

He had already nearly worn himself out kicking at it, and now he was just pacing the room and muttering to himself.  Crowley was seated in the corner of the room, watching him, wondering where he was getting all the energy for such a massive tantrum.

“Come sit down,” said Crowley.  “You’re not going to accomplish anything stomping around like that.”

“Let her do it?” was Aziraphale’s response.  “ _Let her do it?_ That was really the best you could manage in that situation?”

Crowley unfolded himself and stood.  “She’s right.  She has a good portion of angels on her side who would not take this lightly.  She deserves to get Beth back.  She is saving Michael.  You yourself acknowledge how corrupt Heaven has become.  This benefits everyone except those three archangels.”

“You’re going to betray me, too?”

“They _destroyed the Temple_ , Aziraphale. They’ve proven by now that they’ll do anything to start the war, and they _aren’t_ going to stop until the Earth has been transformed into a blood-soaked battlefield.  Is that what you want?”

“Of course not!”

“ _Then what’s the problem?_ This is the only way to keep the Earth safe! Bloody Hell, Aziraphale, the first time it was _you_ who suggested we should kill the antichrist to stop Armageddon!”

“That was different!”

“Why the _hell_ was it different? Because he was a stranger to you?”

“Watch your mouth, serpent.”

“Watch my mouth?   _Watch my mouth?_ Are you even listening to yourself?  ‘Traitors,’ ‘the arrogance’?  You somehow sound like both God _and_ Satan at once!  Do you not see the problem?”

“Maltha has betrayed me. _Everyone_ has betrayed me.  What am I supposed to do?  Thank them?”

“They didn’t _betray_ you!” Crowley shouted, putting his hands on his temples. “They just didn’t tell you what they were planning because they know you’re a stuck-up self-righteous _prick_ who would do _this_ when he found out!”

Aziraphale crossed his arms and turned away from Crowley.  “I can’t look at you right now.”

“Aziraphale, you’re smarter than this.  Michael was going to die unless he fell—”

“You don’t know that. You don’t know if anything Maltha told us was true. She could be lying through her teeth. She could be deceiving us all.  She could have just manipulated Raphael into making Michael fall so she could have him for Hell.”

“The sphinx was in the room.”

“What?”

“The sphinx. It calls out lies.  It was in the room, but it kept quiet. Her entire story is true, down to why she and Raphael collaborated to get Michael booted from Heaven.”

“You just think you’re so clever, don’t you?” Aziraphale snapped.  “I’m sure she could have found a way around that.”

“You don’t think Raphael would have been able to tell she was lying? All those angels?  She’s tricked them all?  Is that what you think?”

“She sits on the throne of Satan, the father of lies.”

“Satan is dead!” Crowley screamed.  “You little pissbaby, you’re being overdramatic because you’re mad Maltha called you out on being a shithead.  You don’t actually believe they’re traitors or any of that stuff you shouted at them. You’re just showboating.  You’re no perfect little angel yourself.”

“I’ve never rebelled against Heaven like they have!”

Crowley dragged his hands down his face, laughing.  “Ho-ooo-ly fuck, are you really this dense?  Really?  You _really_ need to feel like you’re better than someone else that badly?  To pretend you didn’t answer wrong when Maltha asked you to join?  This is what you did during the original rebellion, isn’t it? Just clammed up because you couldn’t handle it, fell back on the mantras because they’re safe and comfortable.”

“Don’t think you know everything,” Aziraphale needled.  “I’m positive this action is going to have consequences beyond what anyone could imagine.”

“You’re scared because you don’t like change, and you’re acting like a shithead because that’s what you do when you’re scared.”

“I was wrong to trust her. I was wrong to trust any of you demons.  I should never have done any of this. Maybe I should have just left you down here and gotten on with the war.”

“What did you say?” Crowley hissed.  “What the _hell_ did you just say?”

Aziraphale remained stormily silent.

“Hey,” said Crowley, grabbing his arm and wrenching him around.  “You fucker, _what_ did you just say to me?  I _know_ you didn’t mean you should have left me to Satan when _you_ put me down here in his hands, because that would be—”

“You heard what I said.”

Crowley’s fist came up and cracked across Aziraphale’s face.  The angel leapt backwards out of Crowley’s grasp, cradling the cheek upon which a bruise was blossoming.  His face screwed up into anger, and he shoved Crowley back.

And then the two of them slammed into each other, clawing and punching and cursing at the top of their lungs, tearing clothes and pulling hair and feathers with bitterness and rage they had never even held for each other before they had come to the Arrangement.

“Hey! Hey!”

The both stopped at the shout, breathing heavily, to see that the door was open and Botis was sticking his head in.  His eyes were wide.  “Um…Am I interrupting something?”

Aziraphale shoved Crowley off him.  “No, Botis, nothing at all. What are you doing here?”

“Me and Adramelech were looking for our angels down here and…we heard you yelling.  It’s improper for one’s lord to be locked up and not do anything about it.  So we figured we would come rescue you.”

Even as he spoke he sounded unsure.  Any other demon probably would have demanded to know what was going on first. Aziraphale tried to straighten out his clothes.  “Thank you, Botis. Well, let’s go then.”

Aziraphale moved to exit, then turned back when Crowley didn’t follow. “Are you coming?”

“No,” Crowley spat.  “I’m not going anywhere with you. Go to H-…go to H-  go away from me!”

Aziraphale stormed back over to him.  “I’m not leaving you here.”

“Don’t you touch me!” Crowley shouted as Aziraphale tried to take his arm. “You don’t get to say that to me and then act like this!  Get the fuck away from me!”

“You know I didn’t mean any of that,” Aziraphale fumed.  “I’m not leaving you down here by yourself.  Come on.”

“Oh _do_ I know that?  Do I?”

“Crowley, stop being petulant and let’s go!”

“I would rather die than go with you!”

“Fine, if you’re going to act like a child then I’ll just go without you!” Aziraphale turned away, marching towards the open door and Botis.

“Are you sure you can trust him?” Crowley shouted to his back as it disappeared. “He might betray you like I did! Surely you can’t trust demons!”

Aziraphale closed the door behind him, but did not lock it.  Botis and Adramelech looked at him, dismayed.  He huffed and stomped away, heading back towards the antechamber of the ninth layer.

“Aziraphale, what’s going on?” said Adramelech, rushing to catch up to him, his light armor clanking with each step.

He realised these two would probably take Maltha’s side if he told them, even though they claimed to be his friends.  “Don’t worry about it, Adramelech,” said Aziraphale.  “Please just help me get back up to Earth, and you can go back to what you were doing.”

“Aziraphale,” said Botis, hurrying up to appear by his other side. “If something is happening, we should know so we can help you.  We are sworn to your service.”

“No, Botis,” said Aziraphale. He only realised afterwards it had come out much harsher than intended.

The two demons looked dejected, but they nonetheless took their weapons out and escorted him.

They passed through the antechamber and entered the accursed hallway that led to the eighth circle.  Voices could be heard echoing from the other end.  Botis and Adramelech both cursed and pushed Aziraphale in opposite directions.

“We need to hide,” Adramelech whispered rapidly.

“We need to go back,” Botis said back.

Aziraphale caught sight of an enormous boar coming in at the other end, so he broke their indecision and dove into the room next to them.  The two of them followed, crouching just inside the doorway with him, out of sight.

Mammon's heavy footsteps passed by just outside their hiding spot, accompanied by the patter of a second pair of feet and an unexpected voice: Raphael.

“I don’t suppose there’s any point in trying to convince you to let me go?” Raphael did not sound particularly scared, maybe a little annoyed.

Mammon’s reply was low and indistinct as they reached the end of the hallway.  Adramelech leaned out to see their progress.

He pulled back in and knelt.  “They’re gone, if we run for it now we’ll probably escape her notice.”

“Come on,” said Botis, tugging Aziraphale’s arm.  “We should go.”

Aziraphale did not come on.  Aziraphale was frozen looking at the room they were in.

He had only been in a room like this once, and that was to get Crowley out, and he hadn’t had the chance to take a very close look at it.  Now the he did, he was horrified by it.  It was worse by far than the rooms Heaven held you in to punish you.  Huge, barbed hooks hung from the ceiling by chains, tinkling softly against each other. The floor was sloped towards a drain. Someone had left a pair of rusty needle-nosed pliers on the ground in a smear of dried blood.  There was a clump of hair plastered to the floor.  The walls were peeling and corroded.  Even now the smell of sweat and blood and fear hung heavy in the air.

“Why did I say that to him?” said Aziraphale.  “I told him I should have left him _here._  Why did I…?”

“We must hurry,” said Botis, tugging at him again.  

“Why did I say any of that stuff?  To any of them?  What am I _doing?_ ”

“We’re not safe here,” Botis tried again.

“We have to go back,” said Aziraphale.  

“There’s no time!” exclaimed Adramelech.  “Mammon will catch us as soon as she sees you’re gone, and we’ll surely be punished!”

“We have to get out of here,” said Botis.

He allowed them to push him out, indecision weighing him down.  Aziraphale looked over his shoulder, suddenly remembering Crowley’s shrill cries under torture, regretting everything he had done and said over the past few hours, feeling absolutely worthless.

Aziraphale still had not made a resolution by the time they exited the ninth layer.  Adramelech sprinted into a very narrow tunnel hidden in the rocks.  “Here.”

“What’s this?” said Aziraphale.

“It’s safer if we don’t move about in the open,” said Adramelech.  “You have many enemies here.”

They all ducked into the narrow space.  Botis pushed Aziraphale to go further in, then sighed.

“Sir,” he said, throwing a salute as best as he could in the enclosed space, with as loud of a throaty whisper as he dared, “I can tell you are still distressed. Please allow Adramelech to escort you back up to Earth, and I will go back and retrieve Crowley and bring him up safely.”

“Oh,” said Aziraphale, relieved.  “Oh, yes, please do that.  Make sure he’s safe.”

Botis crawled back towards the exit.

“Botis, be careful,” said Adramelech.  “I would hate to see anything happen to you.”

Botis grunted.  “Don’t get too sentimental, you Crayola brand feathered disaster.”

Adramelech wrung his hands as Botis disappeared.  “Come on.  We need to get you out of here.”

“Can’t we wait here for Crowley?” said Aziraphale.  “I need to apologise to him.”

Adramelech let out an avian hiss.  “Aziraphale, we don’t have time to putz around in the lower levels of Hell! Any demon below a duke is in danger here, let alone an _angel_ , and one the rebels have it specifically out for!”

Aziraphale deflated, chastised.  

“I-I mean,” said Adramelech.  “You’ll have time to apologise to Crowley later.  He’ll be safe with Botis.” He added in a mutter, “It’s _us_ I’m worried about.”

“What was that last part?”

“N-nothing!  Come on!  No time to lose!”

Aziraphale followed Adramelech as he led the way through the tunnels. “Hey, Adramelech,” he said, while navigating a particularly rocky corner.  “What would you do if the foundation of everything you’d known for six-thousand years was about to be destroyed?”

“Hm?”

“If someone you always looked to for guidance was about to be killed by someone who you knew in your heart was right.”

“Well…I suppose I’d try and stop whatever was going to happen, and suggest talking about it instead.”

Aziraphale let out a laugh.  “Talk about it, right.  I’m sure. And what would you do if you had kind of, sort of, made a complete arse of yourself first?”

Adramelech paused with one foot on either side of a crag.  “What’s this about, sir?”

What was there to do? If Aziraphale knew Crowley, he wouldn’t want to go with Aziraphale after that fight, even if Aziraphale apologised. No, Crowley would go home and sulk. That’s what he did when he was scared and out of his element.  He went to a place where he felt like he had control, and just stayed put and hoped everyone would leave him alone.

Which meant Crowley would be safe, and Aziraphale wouldn’t have to worry about him if he, say, went up into Heaven.

There would be time to make up with Crowley later.  Right now, the foundations of Creation were shifting, and it was happening up in Heaven.  And Aziraphale had gotten in the habit of hanging around wherever Earth-shattering things were happening.

“Nothing, Adramelech,” said Aziraphale.  “Forget I asked.  Let’s get going.  I have somewhere to be.”

* * *

Crowley was sulking.

He didn’t want to admit that he was sulking, because children sulk. Adults don’t sulk.  Demons certainly don’t sulk.  But he was sitting angrily in the corner with his knees drawn up against his chest, his arms crossed, hiding his face.  It was the very definition of sulking.

He had a right to sulk, he thought.  He had probably just ruined his relationship with Aziraphale.  It wasn’t okay to hit your beloved, no matter how stupid and nasty they’re being—

He doubted if Aziraphale would even want to see him now, not after how he had been going on about betrayal and not trusting demons.  This was a repeat of the fight they had had earlier, except now it was way worse.

And now here he was.  Alone. Sulking in Hell.

Well, he suddenly realised, he could sulk at home.  Up on Earth.  The door was still open.  He knew a way up that could get him to the surface while staying mostly out of sight. He could sit in his fortress and wait until whatever was happening was done happening.  Maltha would take Michael to do her thing, and if she succeeded—God, he hoped she did, the alternative was unthinkable—the Earth would be safe for a very long time with the old management of Heaven pared down.  And Aziraphale would huff and stomp and have his tantrum, and then he’d mellow out and see that she had been right.  

Probably.  Eventually…

He stood, wiped his face, and peeked his head out the door.  He had heard footsteps outside earlier, but it was quiet now.  He snuck out, moving as quietly as he could. But there was no one around to be concerned about.

Keeping flat to the wall, he slunk out of the wing and out into the antechamber.  There was nowhere to hide there.  He’d just have to cross it as quickly as he could.

He dashed out and almost ran smack into someone doing the same thing.

Crowley staggered backwards, fearfully eyeing who it was he had almost collided with. It was only one of the kitchen staff.

“Oh,” said Crowley.  “Listen, just forget that you saw me, and—”

He stopped, because he suddenly noticed the jar she was holding under one arm filled with glowing liquid angel dust, and the expression on her face showing she knew she was not supposed to be holding it.

“Hey, where are you going with—”

Crowley was cut off as the imp rammed into him, pushing him away, and then bolted for the door.

Crowley flailed to right himself.  “Shit,” he said.  “Shit shit _shit_ , who _was_ that?”  He took off out of the antechamber, sprinting to catch up to her.  “Hey!” he shouted.  “Come back here!”

The imp’s tail disappeared out into the light of the eighth layer. Crowley suddenly remembered what Maltha had said about putting wards up to keep him safe, and he remembered it because as he vaulted out of the exit to chase down the renegade imp, he felt himself cross the border out of the wards’ protection.

And almost directly into Kabata.

“Shite!” Crowley yelped, leaping backwards as fast as he could.

The imp, panting with exertion, held the jar out, and Kabata took it. “You have to drink it,” she said. “The whole jar.”

“Good girl.”  Kabata’s fearsome gaze swung to Crowley, who backed further up into the wards’ range. “But I see you didn’t get away without witnesses.”

“He’ll tell,” said the small demon.

“He’ll stay quiet if he knows what’s good for him,” said Kabata.

“I’ll take care of him,” said the small demon.

“You’ll _take care of_ me?” said Crowley.

“You’ll _take care of_ him?” said Kabata, sounding equally shocked.

The small demon nodded.  Kabata leaned over and planted a kiss on her forehead.  “Then I’ll be on my way.”

Crowley watched, conflicted, as Kabata spread his wings and spiraled up into the upper layers of Hell.  “That wasn’t for you!” he shouted.

His gaze returned to the smaller demon.  “And who the heck are you?”

The demon took a deep breath. “My name’s Yulera.  And I’m not afraid of you.”

“Er,” said Crowley.  “Okay.” He gestured around him.  “I’m behind a ward, though.  You can’t do anything to me.”

He did not like the way Yulera’s eyes raked over the situation, as though dissecting it for information to work out a puzzle.  “No, I can’t physically pass back into the ward now that I’ve left it, it seems.  But magic should be able to penetrate for a few feet into it.”

She raised her hand. Klaxons began to sound in Crowley’s head.

“This is from a book I read!”

Crowley pivoted his foot to leap back, but not fast enough.  Yulera swiped her hand in a complex shape in the air with one swift motion. Simultaneously, Crowley’s shirt tore, blood spattered out, and he felt something like iron chains close around his wings as he tried to spread them.

He fell face-first into the dirt. He scrambled back to his feet, hand clamped on his side to stifle the blood welling up there.  “What the f-  What did you _do?_ ”

The demon thrust her arms into the air in a celebratory manner, giving a single excited hoot.  Crowley drew his hand back to see that a sigil had been cut into his flesh, a familiar one.

“You _bastard_ ,” he spat, stumbling backwards.  He frantically tried to pull his wings out, but his suspicions were confirmed: they would not budge.

“You won’t mess things up this time,” said Yulera.  “You won’t get far enough to warn anyone he’s coming.”  

“Do you even know what he’s going to do?” Crowley shouted.  “Something horrible, I’m sure.”

“Next time I might work up the courage to finish you off!  Best run off and hide somewhere!”

Yulera scuttled up the rock wall behind her like some kind of lizard, spreading her wings and launching up and out of sight.

Crowley stood there holding his bleeding side. “Fuck.   _Fuck._ ” He tried to invoke his healing powers, but they were locked down tight.

He put his hands on his head, walking in a tight circle.  “Fuck.   _Fuuuuuck._ Oh my _somebody,_  where did she even _read_ the Key of Solomon?  What the _fuuuuck.”_

Now this was a shite situation.  Kabata was going to tag along with Maltha into Heaven.  Crowley had no idea what _that_ ne’er-do-well would do once up there, but it meant Maltha’s entire plan was in danger of falling apart if he jammed himself in it like a wrench in gears.

He had to warn someone that Kabata was coming.  But the war party had already left.  That just left Mammon down here, but they were out of angel dust.

There had been two more jars in the kitchen, that imp had said.  Three jars.  One for Maltha.  One for the fallen Michael. The third presumably intended as a backup of some sort. Now stolen for Kabata.

Mammon was powerless to do anything if they had already set off to Heaven, which they probably would have by the time they could reach the first layer.

Crowley had some leftover angel dust in his flat.  But it had been made with the feathers from only two angels, and consequently was only strong enough for a demon his size.  And it was the old version of the spell.

“What the fuck!” said Crowley, kicking a nearby boulder.  “No way.  No fucking way. I’m not doing that.  Goddamn it. No way.”

And now he was inflicted with the restraining sigil from the Key of Solomon at the bottom of Hell, by himself.  Even if he managed to make it up to the exit without the use of his demonic powers, would he even be able to get up out of Hell to Earth without his wings?

Maybe he could reach Aziraphale before he left.  Maybe he could scramble up fast enough to warn Maltha.  He could use the tunnels the smaller demons used to stay out of sight here.  But he had to hurry.

He dashed away from the ninth layer, spotting the entrance to the hidden tunnel in the rocks, and dove towards it.

He settled himself into the tunnel, panting, grateful he had made it. Not only was he outside the ward now, but he couldn’t even use his powers, so it would be disastrous to be spotted.

He began to move forwards at a crouch.

A face half-covered by bandages appeared, with eyes that lit with anger as soon as they saw him.

“You!” Duke Jezebel raged.

“Shit!” Crowley said, scrambling to turn around in the narrow space.

He felt Jezebel’s hand ghost against his shirt just before he could haul his arse out of her reach, and he bolted back out of the tunnel as fast he could.

A vicious kick landed on his back, sending him smashing into a boulder. Crowley felt his nose crunch and blood begin to pour out.  He looked up to see the wards were only a few meters away.  He lunged for them, but a hand seized his ankle and began to drag him back.

“I know _exactly_ what I’m going to do with _you_ ,” said Jezebel venomously.  

Crowley had killed a duke before, but he had no holy water at his disposal and no alternatives with his powers locked down tight.  He was no match for even an injured duke in this state.  But that didn’t stop him from trying.

He brought his foot down on Jezebel’s fingers, and she yelped and released him. He scrambled away, but she cornered him against the boulder again.

“You can struggle if you want to,” sneered Jezebel.  “That will make it more fun for me, actually.”

“Wait, hold on,” said Crowley, holding his hands out, spinning elaborate lies in his head on the fly, as was his habit when he was about to die.

“Maltha has killed someone very important to me,” said Jezebel.  “And now I’m going to do the s…huh?”

This last noise was uttered as the ground began to shake under them.

“What in blazes?” said Jezebel.

A bellowing scream faded into existence, getting gradually louder and louder as the rumbling increased.

An enormous black horse broke into view, thundering hooves striking sparks against the ground as it galloped towards them at top speed.  Smoke poured from its mouth as it let out a whinny. And in its saddle was a warrior in armor decorated with bones, sword held aloft, mouth open in a battle cry, baring his huge tusks.

Botis did not need to give a command or an ultimatum.  He was angry, scary, ready to kill; in short, he was everything a demonic warrior was supposed to be as it bore down on those invoking its wrath, except he was aiming right for a demon who outranked him by a lot.

Either it was because Jezebel was too dumfounded to think correctly, or because she was still processing what she was seeing, or because her movements were slowed from her injuries, but she didn’t move out of the way in time.  The hellhorse hit her at full speed, crushing her beneath its hooves.

She let out a painful shriek and extricated herself from under it as soon as she could, bloodied and bruised.  Botis pulled the reins to circle back around.  A second, unmounted hellhorse trotted up behind him, which Crowley assumed was supposed to be for him.

“Duke Jezebel,” said Botis simply.

“ _You_ ,” sneered Jezebel.

Botis’s horse whinnied and reared back as Jezebel materialised a weapon and lunged at him.

Botis brought his sword up, but Jezebel’s whip cracked against him, wrapping around his arm and yanking him down off his horse.  “You think you can challenge me?  You think you can stop _me?_ ”

Her whip changed into a sword.  Botis barely managed to scramble over and grab his own sword before she brought it down on his head.

“Ah, shit shit shit,” said Crowley, watching the two go at each other. Both hellhorses skittered out of the way of their fight.

A duke was no opponent to sneeze at in a fight, even one who was injured. Crowley tried to think of a way to help. He eyed the horses.

“I remember you,” said Jezebel, her sword clanging against Botis’s.  “The cowardly deserter.”

Botis bared his tusks.  “If I’m so cowardly how come you can’t scare me away?”

“Abandoned your station—“

“Hm?”

“—your teammates—“

“Maybe you’re just not scary enough.”

The flat of Jezebel’s blade smashed into Botis’s hand, knocking his sword away.  He stumbled backwards, snatching his sword back up with his non-dominant hand.

“All you traitors deserve to die!” Jezebel yelled, raising her sword. “Just like this!”

One of the horses rammed into her from behind, knocking her into the ground. Crowley, clinging to its back, terrified, shouted, “Get out of here you bloody annoyance!”

He pulled the reins of the horse so that its hooves would trample her again. Botis, meanwhile, kicked Jezebel’s weapon out of her reach and pulled himself back onto his own horse.

When Jezebel finally managed to get out from under him, Botis had come around and was aiming for her again.  She looked from one to the other and dashed off, hobbling as fast as she could away from them.

Botis pulled up and let her go, watching her spread her wings and get into the air with laboured wingbeats.

Crowley let go of the saddle, hands shaking.  “Bloody hell.  I hate these things.  They don’t like me.”

“You handled your mount admirably!” said Botis cheerfully, palming the bloodied wound on his face.

“What are you doing back down here?” said Crowley.

Botis threw his hands into the air.  “Heroically rescuing you, of course.”

Crowley wheezed.  “Botis, I could kiss you right now.”

Botis’s horse pulled up parallel to Crowley’s.  “Sir, I’m flattered,” said Botis.  “And it’s true that you’re very attractive.  But my heart belongs to Kyleth.”

“That’s not what I m—Wait, you think I’m attractive?”

They stared at each other for a moment, during which Botis grew considerably red.

“Nevermind that,” said Crowley, waving away the awkwardness.  “I need you to heal me.”

“But I’m not a healer.”

“It’s just to my corporation.  A small miracle should do the trick.” He turned to show Botis where the sigil had been carved into him.  “Please, Botis, I feel like I’m suffocating in my corporation.”

“Oh, I think I can do that.”

Botis reached over and touched Crowley’s side.  His skin writhed together, and he could feel the effects of the sigil lifting.

Crowley slumped forwards in the saddle with relief, letting his wings break out again. “Ohhhhh, sweet somebody, thank you, Botis.”

“Just doing my duty,” said Botis.

Crowley looked back up at him and realised he was still bleeding from a number of wounds Jezebel had inflicted on him.

“Here,” said Crowley, reaching out.  “Let me heal you.”

“That would be an honour, sir,” said Botis.

Crowley worked to mend the one bleeding into Botis’s eyes.  “I mean it, Botis.  Thank you.  There aren’t many people who would be willing to risk their life for me.”

“Well, that’s simply untrue!” said Botis.

Crowley looked up at the other demon, who was giving him an enormous grin. And for the first time, he realised it _was_ untrue.

“Yeah,” said Crowley, smiling faintly.  “I guess you’re right.”

“Everyone needs a little help every once in a while.”

“I could have died.”

“But you didn’t!” said Botis.

“I…I could have died,” said Crowley. “And the last thing I would have ever said to Aziraphale would have been that horrible argument.”

“We all have arguments sometimes,” Botis tried.

“No, I…” Crowley pulled his horse’s reins.  “I need to go find Aziraphale. Right now.  I’m positive he’s going up into Heaven to try something stupid, and with Kabata tagging along he—he might get himself killed, permanently killed.  I can’t let that happen, even if I’m angry with him.  Let’s go.  Maybe we can reach him before he leaves.

“Let’s go then!”

It was straight shot up to Limbo.  Most people knew better than to try and attack anyone on a Hellhorse, Crowley guessed. Crowley was no better at horses than he remembered.  He actually fell off at one point when they went around a particularly sharp bend, and he was embarrassed that Botis had to give his backside a little push to get him back up into the saddle again.

They made it up eventually, only to find Adramelech standing by a new crater in the ground, and no one else.

“No no no,” said Crowley, pulling his horse up.  “We missed them?”

“Aziraphale just left a few minutes ago,” said Adramelech.  “And by this here it looks like everyone else did, too.”

He gestured to a mishmash of chalk circles and spell ingredients lying scattered on the floor.  Crowley recognised it as the setup that would get you straight into Heaven.

He seethed quietly, throwing the reins down.  “Of course.  Of _course._  Just bloody perfect.”

Adramelech and Botis both looked at him shame-facedly, as though feeling responsible for his problem despite having no idea what was going on.

Still raging, Crowley got down off his horse, spreading his wings. “Bloody fucking perfect.  All right. I guess in my heart I knew I was going to have to do this, because otherwise it would have been too easy and safe for me, and we can never have that, can we?  Hey Botis, do you remember Heaven’s gates?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you think a speeding automobile could generate enough momentum to break them open?”

“…Why?”

Crowley snapped his fingers, and a pair of sunglasses dropped onto his face. “Because so far my return to the Heavenly Kingdom hasn’t been nearly stylish enough.”

* * *

Mykas had not been able to change his shape, no matter how much he tried, and eventually he had given up and moved on.  He stood behind Maltha now, looking halfway between man and beast, licking his lips from downing the last of the angel dust given to him. He would be the only one out of the entire lot to ingest it who thought that it tasted all right.  They had fitted him with armor to prepare for battle, except for his legs, because they were shaped differently now and no one could find any greaves that would fit him.

“Are you ready, Mykas?” Maltha asked.

He reared back up onto two legs and summoned his sword.  The celestial anti-demon sigils that had previously donned its surface had been wiped clean.  The red jewels set in the handle now glowed with a faint, infernal light.  “Let’s party.”

“Lyra, prepare the route, please.”

The court spellcaster finished the chalk circle as Maltha was speaking. The dozens of incense burners around them flared to life, and she began to say the incantation.

“All things bright and beautiful...”

There was the sound of dozens of weapons unsheathing simultaneously.

“All creatures great and small...”

“Get ready,” said Maltha.  “We’re coming.”

“All things wise and wonderful.”

The portal zoomed open, a milky white disc stretching along the extra-long chalk circle, wide enough to accommodate a dozen at a time.

“The second rebellion begins now,” Maltha announced, stepping forward.


	13. The Second Rebellion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> on tumblr at http://not-a-space-alien.tumblr.com/post/164541870450/falling-hazard-part-13-the-second-rebellion

 

 

Art by [@petimetrek](https://tmblr.co/moY2zLgzX0BHBJ-_cHyY3Hg) ([link for better quality](http://petimetrek.tumblr.com/post/159981179376/commission-for-not-a-space-alien-commissions-info))

 

_Holy water cannot help you now._

_A thousand armies couldn’t keep me out._

_I don’t want your money. I don’t want your crown._

_See I’ve come to burn your kingdom down._

_And no rivers and no lakes can put the fire out…_

 

* * *

The atmosphere of Heaven seemed to be a little darker now.  The gates were not shining quite as brightly. And the gatekeeper, leaning boredly against her post, was the first to smell the trouble that was about to unfold that day.  She would have been a fool to miss it, since the portal opened up right in front of her and disgorged a smattering of angels who had all been reported missing.

“Hey, where have you all been?” said the gatekeeper, trying to sound annoyed instead of uneasy.  The feeling of unease turned out to be justified when one of the warrior angels muscled her out of the way and began to pull the gates open.

“Hey! What are you doing? That’s _my_ job!”

“Stand aside,” said the warrior.

The gatekeeper looked at the group with uncomprehending eyes.  With a final _clank,_ the gates sat open.

The gatekeeper moved into the center of the wide-open gates and stamped her foot.  “Now listen, you better tell me what’s going on right now.”

“Get out of the way,” said a principality.

She stopped as she heard a sound that heralded another arrival from the portal. She turned.

There was something coming through to approach the gate, something puffing billows of black smoke.  It held a healing staff in one arm, but the tip burned with a red and black light of death. Its aura rivaled that of any archangel or archdemon, but instead of one singular aura, it seemed to be made up of a thousand fragments of angels, as though sutured together from a patchwork of angry wishes and prayers.  She had never seen anything like it before, and thought it must be from the deepest, darkest depths of Hell, except for the fact that it stepped out accompanied by an escort of angels.  

“For your own sake,” said the angel beside her.  “Get out of the way.”

* * *

Gabriel had called Kris into his office, and Kris had an idea why, but Kris did not want to get his hopes up and so remained humble as he took a seat across from the archangel’s desk.

“Do you know why I’ve called you in here, Kris?”

“I have a suspicion, sir,” said Kris, trying to hide a smile.  “But I won’t say it before you.”

Gabriel dropped a mound of paperwork onto his desk, then tented his hands and peered at Kris.  “With Michael gone, we need someone to fill the role of warrior archangel.”

“I thought Victoria was chosen for that.”

“Everything I’m about to tell you is classified, and you are forbidden from sharing it.”

“Of course, sir.”

“Victoria was chosen to fill _Camael’s_ position.  We may be demoting her back down to a power and promoting a clerical angel to take her place. We are certainly not going to reassign her to fill Michael’s position.” Gabriel scratched his chin.  “Your loyalty to Heaven has proven in my mind that you would be a perfect replacement.”  

“Pardon me,” said Kris, “but would it not be more conventional to promote one of Michael’s warriors to replace him?  What did the other archangels say when you suggested one of your subordinates replacing him instead?”

“The other archangels don’t know yet,” said Gabriel.  “But I’m positive I can strong-arm Uriel into agreeing to it. The others don’t matter.  I’m going to take things into my own hands. Now that Michael’s gone, we can get things done with an archangel who actually does as he’s told.”

Kris was practically vibrating with excitement, but he did not say anything.

“We will carry out the promotion ceremony at sundown.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Some things are going to be changing around here,” said Gabriel. “We’re going to be doing things a little differently.”

“How so, sir?”

“I have here on my desk a list of names.  It’s mixed angels and demons.  As soon as you’re promoted, I want you to kill these individuals, starting at the top of the list.”

Kris took the list, flipping through pages.  “Sir,” he said, trying not to sound dismayed.  “This includes that demon under the other archangels’ protection.  Surely this will cause problems.”

“That’s why nobody is going to find out you’re the one doing the killing,” said Gabriel.  “The game has changed, and now we can play it however we want.  I’m the Overseer of Divine Affairs on Earth, and it’s recently come to my attention that our agents on Earth are no longer functioning in the appropriate capacity.  I have pinpointed a group of individuals whose elimination would purge our ranks of focal points for inappropriate behaviour.”

Kris scanned the list.

_Crowley (infernal field agent, Great Britain)_

_Aziraphale (celestial field agent, Great Britain)_

_Oryss (infernal field agent, Libya)_

_Botis (infernal field agent, Egypt)_

_Adramelech (infernal field agent, India)_

_Lirach (infernal field agent, United States of America)_

_Abraxas (infernal field agent, Ireland)_

_Paula (celestial field agent, Ireland)_

_Angelo (clerical agent, third division)_

_Vincent (guardian angel, Canada)_

“Hold on, _Vincent?_ ” said Kris, stopping partway down the list.  “Sir, I don’t mean to question you, but how can he possibly be on this list?  He’s a warrior, not a field agent, not to mention he’s been missing for a couple of weeks.”

Gabriel opened his desk drawer and tossed a photograph towards Kris.  He peered at it to see Vincent with a small human girl on his shoulders and a woman on his arm.  They were all laughing.

“Vincent’s place on this list is well-earned,” said Gabriel.  “He has gotten inappropriately involved with his charges.  Notice her stomach.”

Kris looked at the human woman, squinting at the photo in his fingers. “Is she…pregnant?”

“Yes.”

Kris looked up at him sharply.

“After he’s out of the way it should be easy enough to dispose of the unborn child.  And as much as I hate to say it, the human daughter will have to be eliminated as well. Nothing of this kind has happened since the fiasco with the original nephilim, and we need to destroy all the evidence.”

“How old is the daughter?”

“Seven.”

Kris bit his lip.  There was no way to refuse when he had just been rewarded so highly for his obedience.

“None of what I said leaves this room, understand?”

“Of course, sir.”

A sound began to flap into existence around them, the sound of sandals smacking on the polished floor as their wearer ran in a panic.

“Big changes are coming, Kris.  Soon the….who is that?”

A messenger skittered to a stop inside the doorway, chest heaving and looking in absolute disarray.  “Gabriel, sir, we need you outside.   _Now._ ”

Gabriel stood, alarmed.  “What is it?”

“There’s something outside.”

“What?”

“Please come outside, quickly.”

“Kris, come on.”

The list and associated grandiose plans were left on the desk, forgotten. Gabriel and Kris hurried out, beckoning a group of Gabriel’s warriors that had been loitering in the lobby to follow.

Gabriel came out onto the steps to see that the street was empty, except for a lone figure planted in the middle of it, facing the building façade.

It was Vincent.  And he was smiling wickedly.

Gabriel’s warriors appeared, streaming around him down the stairs to move between Gabriel and the street, weapons drawn.

They stood that way for a moment.  Tension swamped the air for reasons he could not identify.

“So where have you been?” said Gabriel.  

Instead of answering, Vincent raised something straight into the sky, a tool with a barrel on it, and pulled the trigger.  With a huge _pop_ , some projectile soared up into the sky, where it exploded into a shower of green smoke.

Gabriel’s eyes followed it up, then snapped back down to Vincent, who had done nothing else.  “Was that supposed to scare me?”

A volley of principalities appeared in the street behind the warrior, jogging to stand beside him.  Vincent shoved the gun back into belt.  “I’m definitely not the scariest thing you’ll see today, sir.”

“Why are you in attack formation?” said Gabriel as another smattering of angels streamed in to line up with Vincent.  “There are no enemies.  Stand down.”

There was suddenly a booming hissing sound, like a pressurised machine venting steam, accompanied by a laugh that sounded like the crackling of something on fire.  “Oh, there are enemies nearby, all right,” said Vincent coolly.

A burning, wraith-like creature with a healing staff in its hand appeared, feet melting the golden bricks beneath its feet as it came to a stop behind the group of opposing angels.

Gabriel’s eyes were wide.  He could find no words.

“Here I am!” it said.

Gabriel had not heard that voice in person for a very, very long time, but the context of the staff was enough to job his memory.  “ _Maltha?”_

“The one and only!” said Maltha, raising her arms.  “You told me to come at you with everything I had!”

“I meant through the _war_ ,” Gabriel fumed.  “You can’t be here!  What...”

A howl sounded nearby, some infernal creature the likes of which Gabriel had never heard.  He turned to the messenger who had brought him outside.  “Go find Uriel.  Tell her we need the new warrior archangel _now._ Tell her my choice is Kris.”

The messenger stood frozen with fear.  “Now!” Gabriel shouted.  “Go! Go!”

The messenger spread their wings and took off.

Simultaneously, a dozen angels from the opposing side drew their bows and fired a dozen arrows, which all hit their marks.  Four speared the messenger’s wings, five their legs, and three in the arms.  The poor angel plummeted back to the ground before they could get clear of the site. No one volunteered to replace them.

Gabriel’s disbelieving gaze left the downed messenger and returned to the group of rebel angels.  “S-so what?  You’re going to kill me?  Is that it?”

Maltha laughed.  “No, I don’t think so.  I have other places to be right now.”  She motioned to her escort, who took to the air.  “As for _who_ will be killing you, I think I shall leave it to _him._ ”

There was a booming growl. Maltha disappeared with a flurry of wings, revealing a hunched, bear-like figure behind her, muzzle crunched in a snarl, drooling saliva, eyes aflame with hunger.

“Jesus!” said Gabriel, jerking backwards.  “ _Michael?_ ”

Another unit of warriors had rushed onto the scene to move in between Gabriel and the interlopers.  Gabriel did not want to admit how relieved he was to see them, because it bolstered his guard’s numbers so that his force was the larger of the two. 

Mykas reared to stand on his hind legs, the tip of his sword trailing on the ground, waiting for the battle to start.  Vincent threw himself into the air and yelled, “Do not lay your lives down to defend Gabriel, brothers and sisters.  He deserves his fate.”

Thoughts of all the secret actions Gabriel had tried to bury suddenly came crashing back into him.

“For all his talk about rules and order, he has broken one of the foundations of Heaven’s cornerstones of kindness to humans,” said Vincent, sounding very angry.

“You have a little secret broken cornerstone yourself,” said Gabriel, who realised far, far too late that no amount of threats to the messenger would protect himself, because the next sentence out of Vincent’s mouth was:

“Gabriel destroyed the Lord’s Temple in Jerusalem.”

Stunned silence fell on the company of angels by Gabriel’s side.

“How many of you did not already know?” said Vincent.  “Well, you know now.”

“Come on,” scoffed Gabriel.  “ _I_ destroyed the Temple?  Does that sound like something I’d do?”

Slowly, the warriors began to part from in front of Gabriel with mutters of disgust.

“Hey!” said Gabriel.  “Resume your posts!  Come back here!”

Mykas watched the blockade in the path to his adversary dwindle until the defending force was barely half its previous size.

“Y-you all!” said Gabriel.  “You would betray Heaven?”

“You are not _Heaven,_ ” said Vincent.  “You are corruption and disaster.  You would sacrifice the Earth, Michael, and all of us if it meant getting your way.  You have brought this upon yourself, and Creation will be bettered with your passing.”

Kris drew his sword and stood in front of Gabriel.

“Kris,” said Mykas.  “Brother, you would still choose this even knowing you had a choice?”

Kris’s face contorted into anger.  “Unlike you, I accept my role in our Heavenly Father’s Plan.  Anyone who refuses to fulfill their intended purpose has no honour or respect from me.  You are no brother of mine, beast.  Even if it means I have to die here on these steps, I will—”

Mykas threw his sword and decapitated Kris.

 _Threw_ is not really the right word to describe what Mykas did.  The sword moved so fast it was an invisible blur, seemingly propelled by force of anger alone.  And _decapitation_ is not really the right word to describe what happened to Kris.  One moment he was standing there talking, and the next his head had disappeared completely in a red mist, the sword still shaking embedded in the marble stairs behind him.

Kris’s headless body toppled over and rolled down the stairs.

That was enough to start the battle.  First blood had been drawn in Heaven.  And the first attack on the Heavenly Kingdom in six-thousand years had begun.

* * *

Maltha’s feet had not touched the golden streets of Heaven for a very long time. She did not want to admit that she missed any of this.  But when she had seen the infirmary with its insignia on the front that had been stripped from her millennia ago, a pang of some strong, unnamed emotion had seized her.

She had forced herself to walk past it without lingering, because it was the future she wanted to preserve, not the past.

Vincent jogged up to join the formation her escort made as it carried her away from the battle brewing in front of Gabriel.  “It’s this way.”

A gaggle of frightened healers rushed to get out of their way as they went down one of the offshoots of the main street.  That was about as much resistance as they met; they were moving quietly, and the sounds of battle in front of Gabriel’s courtyard were now raging so loudly they could still hear it even across such distance.

Heaven would be otherwise occupied for a few minutes.  Which was all they needed.

“Almost there,” said Vincent.  “This way.”

He led them around a corner and into an elegant courtyard with fountains and pools and pristine white limestone pillars.  And standing in the very center of it was the archangel Victoria.

Puffing smoke, Maltha approached.  “It’s nice to finally meet the new archangel.  Well met, Victoria.”

Victoria drew her sword.  “I don’t know what you’re doing here, but you need to leave.  Now.”

“I’m done waiting around,” said Maltha.  “If you think you can stop me, go ahead and try.  But I see you haven’t even brought any support with you.”

“What are you lot doing?” Victoria shouted to the angels behind her. “Have you all lost your minds? Escorting a demon into Heaven?”

The angels drew back slightly behind Maltha, as though shame-faced.

“What’s wrong?” said Maltha.  “Are you afraid of her?”

“Victoria is honourable,” said Vincent.

Maltha’s coal-red eyes roved from her angelic support back to Victoria, finally understanding the problem.  Victoria was honourable.  She had never been a target.  But now she was standing in the way.

“I’ll take care of this,” she said, waving them back.  “I wouldn’t see you pitted against your sister-in-arms.”

The six angels withdrew, looking unsure.

“Look, Maltha, I have a lot of respect for you,” said Victoria.  “That’s the only reason I’m trying to talk to you first.  If you were anyone else, I would have struck you down on sight.  You understand that, right?  You understand the gravity of this?”

Maltha clucked her tongue.  “So serious.  I’m just walking about, Victoria.”

“Get out!” Victoria shouted.  “You desecrate the ground you walk on!  Nothing good can come of you being so close to our Heavenly Father!”

“You were doing so well,” said Maltha, twirling her staff.  “I thought perhaps we might have been able to settle this without violence.”

“Your very presence here is violence.”

“Victoria, surely you must know that the current leadership in Heaven cannot stand.  You took Raphael’s side, so surely you must know they were willing to sacrifice Michael. And surely you must have heard about who _actually_ destroyed the Temple.”

Victoria was stormily silent.

“You didn’t know.”

“Don’t pretend you care about the Temple.”

“It was Gabriel.”

“You’re lying!”

“She’s not lying,” interjected one of the angels.

Victoria glared at him, but did not lower her sword.  “Heaven’s leadership isn’t the business of a demon.”

“It is my business when they meddle in my affairs to further their own agenda,” she snarled, stalking forwards, huffing glowing cinders out of her mouth.  “They did everything in their power to hurt me in the deepest, most personal way, because they thought themselves safe in their holy fortress and wanted to watch me rampage from a distance.  No more. I’m done. Now stand aside.”

“I’m afraid I can’t let you go any further.”

“Why are you so dead-set on sacrificing yourself for a meaningless cause, and for people who would not ever dream of doing the same for you?”

“Because this is all I have!” Victoria screamed, voice warbling.  “This is who I am!  If I don’t then what am I?  What good am I?  How could I look at myself in the mirror if I just let you?”  

“What am I if I can’t fulfil my God-given purpose?”  Maltha smiled sadly.  “Doesn’t _that_ sound familiar.”

“Don’t try that.  I’m nothing like _you._ ”  Victoria wiped her cheek, then put her hand back on her sword. “This ends now.”

“I don’t want to fight you, Victoria.”

“Yeah, I wouldn’t want to fight me, either.”

“Please, Victoria.  Just stand aside.”

“If you don’t want to fight, then don’t!” said Victoria, lunging forwards. “Then just die!”

Victoria launched herself and cleared the space between them in the blink of an eye, propelling herself on black wings spread wide.  Her sword clashed mightily against Maltha’s staff with all of her momentum.

Maltha slid back with the force of the blow, arms trembling with the effort of holding back that sword.  Any weapon less than that of an archdemon would have shattered under the attack.

Maltha’s foot barely cleared the water of one of the pools as she broke off, spreading her wings to stabilise herself.  She flipped over the pool, trying her damnedest not to touch it, because of course she knew what would be in it.

Victoria lunged to chase her, splashing over the pool and thrusting her sword again.

They locked onto each other, becoming a blur of motion, weapons bashing against each other with a series of clangs like gongs ringing out in the open space.

“You can still run,” Victoria said between grunts, not breaking her concentration.

“So can you,” steamed Maltha.

Maltha slipped up.  And Victoria’s sword punched right through her gut.

Maltha exploded into a fit of hisses and shrieks, sizzling out into human form and pulling backwards, hand over the wound.  Stumbling, she fell to her knees.

The six warriors rushed to her side, drawing their weapons hesitantly, prepared in case Victoria tried to land the killing blow.  Maltha gave a moan of pain, blood welling from between her armor where the sword had slid in.

Victoria stood back.  “I told you to give up.”

Maltha squeezed her eyes shut.

“I’ll ask one more time, demon.”  She pointed her sword at Maltha.  “I’ll give you _one more_ chance to escape with your life.”

Maltha pressed her hand into her wound.

“You’re skilled, Maltha.  But you’re not a warrior.  You’re…”

Victoria’s eyes blew wide as she realised what Maltha was doing with her hand on her wound.

“You cheating bitch!” said Victoria, flying into a rage, bringing her sword down on Maltha’s head.

The staff came up with one hand to meet her, shaking with the effort.

“If you think…” Maltha growled.

Still with one hand clutching the wound, she shoved Victoria back and got to her feet.  Victoria tried to attack again, but Maltha blocked.

“…that I’ve come this far, just to be beaten by some upstart _power…_ ”

Victoria frantically tried to land hits, but Maltha kept her staff tight to her body, blocking with one hand and healing with the other, blue light feeding out from her hand back into her.

“Then you’ve got another thing coming, you whelp!”

“A dishonourable thing to do, to take advantage of someone giving you a chance—”

“All’s fair in war, love,” said Maltha.

The wound closed up.  Maltha’s second hand flew back to her staff, and then she was on the offensive again, getting closer, working to push Victoria back.

And now Victoria slipped up.  Maltha’s staff swung low and crunched against Victoria’s knees, and the archangel collapsed with an exclamation of pain.  Maltha crushed Victoria’s hand, evoking another cry, and kicked her sword away.

The tip of Maltha’s staff came down into the center of Victoria’s back, slamming her into the ground and overcoming the archangel’s attempts to right herself.

Panting, the two of them just remained as they were for a moment.

“You wear the mantle of archangel well, Victoria.  But I can see you’re not quite used to wielding it yet.”

Victoria let her head fall to the floor.  “I suppose there are worse ways to die than this.”

The weight of Maltha’s staff disappeared.  “Die?  I’d never hear the end of it if you did.”  She began to hobble away, moaning about her aches and pains.  “Better get those legs looked at after I let Raphael out of Hell, hm?”

Victoria sprawled out, groaning.

Maltha’s escort formed up behind her, giving Victoria sympathetic glances in passing.

“Lord,” said Vincent, jogging to Maltha’s side.  “Your performance was admirable.”

“Let’s just get out of here before someone comes along and fixes her up,” Maltha sighed.  “I know this is going to bite me in the arse.  Hurry up.  Where are we going from here?”

Vincent pointed to a construction in the distance, something surrounded by a huge wall.  “All the humans in Heaven are behind that wall.  I know she is in there.”

Maltha stopped, putting her hands on her knees, winded.  “Of course.  All right.  And how do you propose we gain entry?”

Vincent smirked.  “Kris isn’t the only warrior who figured out how to use his aural weapon as a bomb.”

* * *

Olivia and Kyleth had been left to guard the gate. Guard it from what, no one was sure, but everyone in the party had agreed that it was a good idea to leave two angels at the gates.

If Olivia and Kyleth had not been distracted by arguing with Aziraphale, they might have noticed a certain someone, whom no one had counted on joining the war party, sneak up and fly over the gates.  But this certain someone had done it very fast, and Olivia and Kyleth were both very angry at Aziraphale, so they didn’t.

“Look, I’m an angel the same as any of you!” Aziraphale shouted.  “I have just as much right to be here as you!”

“Go back, you idiot,” said Olivia.

“Now you listen here!” said Aziraphale indignantly.  “I’m Maltha’s friend!”

“Didn’t sound like earlier,” snorted Kyleth.

Aziraphale flushed red.  “Never mind that!  It’s very important that I talk to her.  I might still be able to convince her this is a bad idea before she does anything to get herself and all these angels with her killed or worse.”

“And do what instead?” said Kyleth.  “Have a nice chat over a cuppa instead?  I’m sure that’d be lovely. Imagine Uriel and Maltha having tea together. Just wonderful.”  

“Aziraphale, what is your problem?” Olivia said.  “You know as well as any of us how—”

She was cut off by the sound of an explosion from somewhere deep in Heaven, so forceful that the ground shook beneath them.  All three angels turned to find the source, and saw a towering billow of black smoke rising up.

Aziraphale took the opportunity to slip past them, spreading his wings and somersaulting over the gates, landing on the other side.

“Hey!” said Kyleth.  “Aziraphale, you jerk!”

“Let him go,” said Olivia.  “Not our fault if he gets himself killed.”

Aziraphale hurried away before they changed their minds, jogging along the main avenue, trying to decide on a course of action.

There were two immediately obvious destinations:  The black smoke in the distance, indicative of something having been destroyed.  And closer, a pall of green smoke hung in the air.

The green signal was closest, so he began to scramble towards it.

The streets were quiet, as though everyone were holding their breath. Aziraphale didn’t like it one bit.

He rounded the corner to the courtyard before Gabriel’s headquarters. And stepped into a mess.

Bodies were strewn about in front of the building, the ground slick with blood. At the focal point of this scene was the archangel Gabriel.  Or what was left of him.  His body was lain out on—and all over—the stairs and main walkway.  And standing over the remains was some enormous beast, one with the aural strength of an archdemon, but cloaked with the aura fragments produced by the angel dust spell.

It was fallen Michael.  It had to be. Aziraphale had seen Michael do a _lot_ of things as a Heavenly warrior, but he had never seen Michael look quite as scary as he did now.  He was still tearing at the archangel as though they were in combat, growling savagely, blood soaking his muzzle and neck and flinging everywhere.  It was not the fight of someone who knew what they were doing.  It was the manifestation of millenia of pent-up anger.

A group of angels nearby were trying to tell him the fight was over and he could stop now.  A second group was trying to tell him he had performed admirably, although it represented a deviation from his usual combat style.

Aziraphale watched for a few seconds before backing away.  Hand on his chest, breathing hard, he staggered away and tried not to throw up.

So…green signal, nothing there for him to do, it looked like.  What else could he try?

A second coloured signal went up in the sky nearby, this one yellow.  And it was coming from behind him, nearer to the gate.

He began to backtrack.

* * *

Maltha ran.

She started running as soon as the wall fell, because she had waited for what seemed like forever for this moment, being as patient as humanly—or inhumanly, as the case were—possible, and now that it was so close, it seemed so much more unbearable than before.

Her escort yelled at her to slow down, that they knew where Beth was and should take the lead, and they needed to be orderly to get out as fast as possible, which was of paramount importance since they couldn’t see the signal flares from inside here.

Despite the chaos and Maltha’s excitement, they managed to find their destination eventually.  Disembodied human souls with indistinct faces floated out of her way as she pushed through; they registered mild irritation at being disturbed and nothing more.  The atmosphere was hazy and bright, bathed in a white, sourceless light, and the air was filled with a musical humming that reverberated, as though all the humans within were joined in perpetual song.

“Beth!” Maltha called, stumbling through this.  “Elizabeth!  Where are you?”

The path finally cleared, and there she was:

Beth was currently in the middle of a circle of sprites, small glowing human figures bobbing up and down around her, laughing lightly.  She had a placid, euphoric look on her face, and did not seem to be aware of anything around her.

“Beth!” said Maltha.

Beth’s eyes snapped from the sprites to Maltha.  Slowly, as though with great effort, Beth’s eyes widened with recognition.  “Hey,” she said.  “Hey!  Oh, you’re finally here. Wonderful!”

She wobbly got to her feet, the fae-like creatures around her bouncing up and down and giggling.  Beth, her expression one of intense happiness, took Maltha’s hand and pulled her closer.  “Come here, I want you to meet someone.”

Beth held her hands out, and one of the small human souls drifted down into her arms.  She held it like a toddler, taking it back over to Maltha. “This is my daughter.”

Tears began to well in Maltha’s eyes.  “This…this is Penny?”

Beth nodded.  The creature giggled, holding its amorphous limbs out, pulsing with light.

“She’s…she’s beautiful.”

“I know,” said Beth.  “I’m so happy I got to see her again.”

“Beth,” said Maltha.  “I came to take you back.”

“Back where?” said Beth.

“W-well,” said Maltha, suddenly acutely aware of how things might look to a human perspective, “back to Hell.”

Beth’s face fell, very slowly.  “I can’t take her down there.”

“Well, no…”

“Can’t you just stay up here?”  Beth took Maltha’s arm.  “We could all just…stay up here together, and be a happy family.”

“Lord Maltha, please hurry,” said one of the warriors.

Maltha bit her lip.  “Beth, I can’t.”  Her voice almost cracked.

“Why not?”

“I’m a demon.  I’m not welcome here.”

Beth’s face was blank, as though she were having trouble processing the statement. Then, finally, comprehension began to dawn on her face, like she had forgotten everything that existed outside of this room until now.  “Oh.  I guess I didn’t think of that.”

“Beth, would you rather stay here?”  Maltha’s hand shook in Beth’s, and tears rolled down her cheeks.  “It won’t upset me.  I want you to be happy.”

“Maltha, _please_ , hurry,” said one of the warriors.  “Dina just came back and says she saw the yellow signal go up outside.”

“Noah,” said Beth quietly.  “How is he?”

“He cries at night because he misses you,” said Maltha.  “I can’t sing the lullabies the right way, apparently.”

Beth looked from Maltha to the soul in her arms.

“It’s up to you,” Maltha said tearfully.

“She’s happy here,” Beth finally said.  “She doesn’t need me.”

Beth opened her arms, and the soul drifted upwards to rejoin the circle of other children.

“Goodbye, sweet pea,” said Beth. “I’m so glad I could see you one more time.”

Maltha had already lost track of which was Beth’s daughter.  None of them seemed particularly bothered by her departure.

Beth took Maltha’s hand.  “Okay. I’m ready. Let’s go.”

They hurried out of whatever that strange place was. The moment Beth’s feet hit the rubble of the explosion that had opened their entrance, she got an irritated expression on her face.  “What…What the heck?” she said, rubbing her eyes.

“Are you all right?” said Maltha.

“Yeah, I just…”  She looked back behind her.  “That was fucking weird.  What happened?  Where have I been the past few weeks?  Last I remember, Gabriel was there. That _asshole._ And then there was…light…”

“I’ll tell you all about it later,” said Maltha.  “Right now, we need to get going.”

This last statement by Maltha was prompted by the appearance of the blue smoke signal in the sky, layered on top of the yellow one.

“What does that mean?” Beth said, peering at the signal.

“It means someone’s in trouble,” said Maltha, motioning her guard to follow her. “Come on.”

“Wait, hold on,” said Beth.  “Crouch down for a second.”

Maltha did so.  “Why?”

Beth clambered up onto Maltha’s back, wedging herself between her wings. “This is a rescue right? You’re supposed to carry me.  Don’t you know anything?  Oh, and once we get going, can you take me past Gabriel?  I want to flip him off.”

* * *

Olivia was still fuming.  She walked over to Heaven’s brass gates and started kicking them with her boot.

“Olivia, it’s fine,” said Kyleth.  

“We shouldn’t have let him in,” said Olivia with another savage kick at the gates.  “I ought to go find him and kick his fat, cherubic ass.”

“What is he going to do, realistically?”

“He’s going to get his ass kicked, that’s what he’s going to do.”

A few more kicks to the gate sated her need for violence.  “That fucking guy.  Who does he think he is, huh?”

“Just be glad it was him and not Crowley,” said Kyleth.  “What a disaster _that_ would be.”

A portal zoomed open in front of the gates, stretching far wider than traditional.

Olivia and Kyleth both leaned forward to peer into it.

A pair of headlights flicked on from inside it, and an engine growled.

Kyleth and Olivia barely had time to dive out of the way as a black car came barreling out, rocketing directly into the gates, smashing them open and chugging along for a few dozen metres before coughing and dying, skewed at an angle with tire marks under it.

“Oh my God,” said Kyleth, climbing over the wrecked gates.  “Please tell me that’s _not_ —”

A foot kicked the driver’s side door open, and Crowley rose out amidst steam rolling off the engine.  “Damn,” he said.  “I was really hoping that would get me a lot further.”

“Crowley, holy shit,” said Olivia, rushing over to him.  “Are you using the powder version of the spell? You’re going to get yourself killed.”

Crowley clambered over the wreckage of his vehicle to get away from her. “Now don’t try and stop me, Olivia,” he said, while engaged in an awkward half-run away from her.  “I’ve got to find Aziraphale.”

“Leave him to whatever he gets himself into—Crowley, dammit, would you listen to me!  Kyleth, stay at the gate, I’ll handle this.”

They played an awkward game of chase.  Olivia was faster, but she was afraid to touch him.

“Crowley, you stupid idiot!” said Olivia, trying to round about and step in front of him.  “Maltha will kill us if anything happens to you.”

Crowley skittered to avoid her overtaking him.  She finally managed to corner him against a fence of some sort.

“Now listen here,” she panted.  “You’re important to a lot of people.  This won’t do.  You need to—”

She broke off, her eyes jerking up to a point in space somewhere above his head in the distance, an expression of utmost horror overcoming her features.

He spun around.  Uriel was diving towards him, wings spread like a hawk.

“Fuck!” said Crowley, darting away, in no particular direction but _away._

“I should have known you would have something to do with this!” Uriel’s voice rang out.  “Didn’t I tell you what I would do if I caught you up here again?”

“No no no,” said Olivia.  “Uriel never comes this close to the gate.  She—she—she was supposed to be further in.  She was supposed to be second.”

She watched as the second green signal went up into the sky behind Uriel, its explosion illuminating her wings faintly.

“Fucking—” said Olivia, yanking her flare gun out with a shaking hand. “Perfect. Perfect.  Okay.  Fucking—”

Olivia fired the flare gun _at_ Uriel for good measure, but the archangel dodged it easily, and the signal climbed up into the sky at an angle and exploded low over the buildings.

Crowley, meanwhile, had made an impressive attempt to haul arse away, but Uriel was already in the air, and she gained on him far too fast to overcome.

Crowley turned to face her as she touched down, a hand outstretched to grab him, an expression of disgust and anger on her face.  Olivia stood where she was, looking panicked but making no move to help.

Crowley was going to die, or something worse, right here, right now, unless he could keep Uriel off him.  And for once, his fight or flight instincts landed on _fight._

His healing staff materialised into his hands.  And the split second before Uriel’s hand landed on him, he smacked it away with his staff, pushing out with his aura with all his might, trying his damnedest to copy Maltha.

And he heard a bone crack.

Uriel shrieked in surprise, withdrawing her arm and clutching it. “What did you do, you little scorpion?”

“I…I broke your arm,” said Crowley with triumph.  “I did it!”

Reality came crashing back down on him as Uriel’s undamaged arm lashed out, too late for him to respond, and grabbed his throat, strangling him and lifting him up so that his feet dangled.  She decked him with one of her wings and knocked his staff out of his hand.

“Somebody!” Olivia yelled.  “Jesus fucking Christ.  I can’t fight Uriel by myself.   _Somebody._ ”

“You think you can engage me in combat?” Uriel sneered as Crowley vainly kicked at her. “ _Me?_ ”

Olivia, hands shaking, raised her flare gun again and fired a projectile that released blue smoke.

“I’ve had just about enough of this,” said Uriel, tightening her chokehold on Crowley.  “You think you can get away with so blatantly abusing your power right in front of me?”

“Come on come on fucking _come on_ ,” said Olivia.  “Somebody get your ass over here, come _on._ ”

“Nobody respects the rules,” said Uriel, fire burning in her eyes.  “So why should I?  Hm?  Maybe it’s Uriel’s turn to play God.”

Crowley’s thoughts suddenly rushed back to what Aziraphale had said. That they could be punished with something worse than falling that hadn’t been invented yet, and he had a very, _very_ bad feeling that he was about to witness its invention.

Uriel slammed him face-first into the ground, planting her foot into his back. “Now you’ll see what happens when _Uriel_ uses her powers however she wants to, the way you do,” Uriel raged.

She brought her hand up, and Crowley gasped as his wings tore open from his back of their own accord.

“Uriel, don’t!” Olivia shouted, waving her arms and circling around in front of the archangel.  “Here!  Me!  Attack me instead!”

“You’re next,” said Uriel, fanning her wings.  “Stand back.”

Six-thousand-year-old fear kept Olivia from drawing her sword.  “I hate you!” Olivia shouted.  “You were always the worst out of the lot of them!”

Crowley felt invisible, steely hands grip the base of his wings, and he suddenly knew what might be worse than falling.

_Losing your fucking wings._

“Oh God!” Crowley screamed as the hands began to tug.  “Uriel, don’t!  Don’t! Please!”

“You would dare call upon Our Heavenly Father for mercy?” Uriel said.

The pull became worse.  “Wait! Don’t!  Please!   _Please!_ ”  He felt a tendon snap and gasped in pain.

“Accept your fate,” Uriel said.  “You pathetic creature.”

A figure with sandy wings appeared, moving so fast as to be a blur, ramming into Uriel with the full force of its body weight.

Crowley felt the pressure on his wings mercifully disappear, and rolled over to see that Aziraphale had tackled Uriel off of him, and the two were now righting themselves from the ground.

Aziraphale scrambled back to Crowley.  “C-Crowley, what are you doing here?”

“Trying to stop you from getting yourself killed!”

Uriel pushed herself up with her wings.

“How’s that working out?” said Aziraphale.

“Honestly, not so great,” said Crowley.

“You would dare attack me!” hissed Uriel.  “Traitor!”

“Then I guess I’m a traitor!” Aziraphale shouted.  “I don’t care!”

Uriel began to lumber towards him.  “Crowley, I was just about to say that you were right,” said Aziraphale.  “But I’m starting to think this was a bad idea after all.”

“Aziraphale, I was about to say you might have been right too, but maybe we can talk about this later when we aren’t about to get the shit totally kicked out of—”

Aziraphale just barely managed to step out of Uriel’s grasp as she tried to grab him.

“You idiots!” shouted Olivia.  “Run!  What the fuck are you doing?”

Aziraphale drew his sword, Crowley retrieved his staff, and they backed up, linking hands.

“Aziraphale, I love you!” said Crowley.

“Likewise!” said Aziraphale, squeezing his hand.

“You morons!  She’s going to murder us!” Olivia shouted.

“Then run,” said Aziraphale.

Screaming in frustration, Olivia ran in front of Aziraphale and Crowley and yelled in Uriel’s face, “This is exactly why I joined this mission!  I can’t wait for you to die!”

The _tap tap tap_ of something with clawed feet running at top speed suddenly sounded nearby.

Uriel looked at Olivia with steel cold eyes.  “Me?  Die? In your dreams.”

Mykas came barreling around the corner, a ball of blood and fury, and before Uriel could even turn to face him, his teeth had sunk into her face.

She staggered backwards, screaming as Mykas bit down, tearing the skin off her cheek, raking teeth marks down her neck.  Mykas slipped off her, and she used her wings to push herself away, flapping frantically to get into the air.

Mykas’s accompaniment of rebel angels streamed around him, fanning out. Aziraphale could not help but notice that, far from losing numbers to casualties, it had actually grown in size.

“Traitors!” Uriel shrieked, clutching what was left of her face. “Vile creature!  Get out now!”

Mykas exploded into a howl of delighted laughter, sticking his hand out and materialising his sword.  “Hey, Uriel!”

Uriel had materialised a bow and leveled it at Mykas, several dozen arrows floating in a circle around her.

“Do you have any sympathy for me now?” Mykas shouted.

Uriel’s bow released, launching the volley of arrows.

The assembled angels materialised shields, taking cover.  The second the volley was over, Mykas stood up from behind the angel who had shielded him.

He threw his sword.

Uriel _almost_ moved out of the way in time.

It sliced clean through her leg, severing the limb to a painful cry drowned out by the boisterous shouts from those assembled below.

Trailing blood, Uriel zoomed off.  

Almost directly into Maltha.

The archdemon appeared squarely in Uriel’s intended path.  Beth was on her back, both hands thrown up in a rude gesture.

Realising upon what scene she had just barreled, Maltha took a swipe at Uriel, who zigzagged out of way and took off deeper into Heaven, escaping on already-laboured wingbeats.

Mykas went after her with keen concentration, like a bloodhound, tearing forward on all fours.  Maltha’s group merged with Mykas’s, falling in behind him.

Aziraphale and Crowley had been standing there dumbfounded this whole time, weapons still at the ready.  The support that had poured in left just as suddenly, on Mykas’s tail.

Aziraphale lowered his sword, pulse still hammering.  “Are you all right, my dear?”

Crowley panted with his hands on his knees.  “Ahh…dammit, I think something’s torn in my left wing.  But I think that can be healed.”  He shot back up.  “I completely forgot to say the reason why I came up here!  Kabata is here and he’s tagging along with Maltha’s plan!”

“What?” said Aziraphale with alarm.

“He stole the last jar of angel dust and I’m positive he’s here to do something awful.”

“Come on,” said Aziraphale.  “We need to catch up and tell Maltha.  Wait.”

Crowley had started to move forward, but stopped at the command from Aziraphale.  “What?”

“The…the angel dust.”

Panic flared inside Crowley as he suddenly became conscious of the fact that his coating of angel dust had shifted under Uriel’s attack.  He looked down at himself, patting all over his body frantically.

There was a patch of bare skin on his neck where Uriel had grabbed him. Most of it had been wiped from his arms too.

“I…I’m not burning,” said Crowley.  He looked up to Aziraphale, eyes wide.  “Why am I not burning?”

Aziraphale returned his gaze with equal alarm.

* * *

There was a ram moving among the inner circles of Heaven, stepping carefully, hugging buildings, moving with caution but also with speed.  And when it reached its target, it shifted into something vaguely man-shaped, holding a sheathed sword.

Kabata looked at the massively ornate façade in front of him and pushed the doors open with one meaty claw.

The Metatron was already waiting for him at the far end of the room, right where the red carpet stopped at the door leading to the inner chamber, arms crossed.  Kabata loped in, his hooves tapping on the floor in the silence.

“I see you knew exactly where I’d be coming,” said Kabata, stopping halfway into the room. The cavernous space was so massive, the ceiling soaring so high, that he still had to shout.

“We thought it would have been obvious what exactly your intentions were, considering the circumstances of your fall.”  Metatron waved a hand and materialised a bow and arrow.  “And this is your plan?”

Kabata pulled his sword out of its sheath.  “Yes.”

“Maltha plots the downfall of the whole Heavenly Kingdom by coordinating an entire faction of angels, including one whose fall she had to facilitate herself.  And your plan is to…Walk in behind her and stab God with a big knife?”

Kabata tossed his head, flicking his ears.  “It’s a short-sword, actually.”

Metatron’s face was stormy.  “What?”

“A short-sword.  It’s not a knife.”

“We do not care if you had the audacity to walk in here with a pointed stick!” Metatron exploded.  “You’ll die here!”

“It’s _Him_ who’s going to die!” Kabata shouted, pointing with his sword to the throne room behind Metatron.  “Now get out of the way!”

Metatron drew their bow back and launched an arrow, which Kabata dodged expertly, then charged.  Metatron fired a volley of arrows at him, all with similar failure.  Their bow morphed into a sword when Kabata reached them, and Metatron brought it up to deflect the blow that came next.

Holy metal clanged against the infernal weapon with a shower of sparks. Metatron scowled.

“You were never very good with a sword, my sibling,” said Kabata.

“Neither were you, brother,” Metatron sneered, pushing him off.

They came at each other full speed then, the awkward, graceless back-and-forth of two out-of-practice swordsmen who were very angry with each other and sincerely wished to see each other die.

“You do realise—” Kabata said in between the deafening clangs of their swords “—that we’re both dead the second Maltha walks in here.”

“You’re not with her?” Metatron replied, not breaking their concentration on the fight.

“She hates my guts.”

“It’s not hard to see why.”

One misstep from Metatron, and Kabata knocked them off balance, then seized the opportunity to smash into their chest with his horns, breaking ribs and sending them to the floor.

“I think she’ll be much less likely to kill me than you,” said Kabata, trotting over to the heavy door.  “After I do this.”

He paused in front of the door, still awed by it.  Then, he put one paw on the handle.  “Time to die, parasite.”

He suddenly felt a weight on his back, and he tumbled to the ground, Metatron’s arms locking around his neck.  And then they were fighting like schoolchildren, with fists and teeth and, in Kabata’s case, a wicked pair of horns that he could not get enough space to use.

“Metatron!” screamed a voice, moving rapidly towards them.

Metatron, who happened to be on top as that happened, looked up from Kabata. They saw Uriel running through the doorway.  One of her legs was completely gone, and she spilled blood with each hobbling step, using her wings to stay upright.  “Michael is coming!”

“No,” said Metatron.  “ _No._ ”

Kabata cursed and began to thrash anew beneath Metatron.  “Let me up.  Let me up!”

Uriel collapsed to the floor, dragging herself back to give the door some clearance, then materialised her bow and arrow.  Metatron left Kabata, kneeling beside her and morphing their sword back into a bow.

“You can’t beat him, you fools,” said Kabata.  “You’re both dead.”

“Do you think you’re any _less_ dead?” said Metatron.

Kabata grimaced.  He looked at the door to the throne room, then back to Uriel and Metatron.  Then, he cursed, withdrew his own bow, and knelt on the other side of Uriel, arrow pointing to the door.

The three knelt there with shaking hands on weapons trained on the entrance.  A snarl echoed out from the doorway.

* * *

When Aziraphale and Crowley finally caught up, the war party had come to a halt.

“Why’s everyone just milling about?” said Crowley.

They pushed their way to the front, where Maltha and Beth were standing at the precipice of a doorway.  The sounds of combat and Mykas’s enraged barking echoed from inside.

“What’s the matter?” said Aziraphale.

She looked at the two of them tiredly.  “I would ask how you got up here, but I suppose I should have realised there was no point in trying to imprison _you._ ”

“Hey!” said Beth, waving to them.

They both waved back.

“Mykas charged right in without us,” said Maltha.  “But the angels do not want to follow him.”

Aziraphale peered up at the façade and suddenly realised why as recognition dawned on him:  They were in front of the hall of God’s throne.

“They’re fighting in the antechamber to God’s throne room?  Surely they’ll be killed!” said Aziraphale.  

He looked back down at the accompaniment of angels, seeing the fear on their faces. This was it, the limit of their rebellion.  They would gladly face Uriel and Gabriel without a second thought, but God Himself?  No, apparently not.

“I’m going to go in,” Maltha said, raising her voice.  “Unless anyone has any objections?”

“Lord Maltha,” said one of the warriors.  “When we made our bargain, we never expected you to step into the throne room without support, even with the angel dust.”

“No,” said Maltha.  “I understand that.  But this is why you asked me to come with you.  Because you needed help.  You needed someone to be strong when you couldn’t.  You need someone to spit in God’s face.”  She whirled around. “I’ve done this before.  I’m practically an expert.  We can’t leave Mykas fighting alone.”

The angels drew back with expressions of solemn respect.

“You don’t have to go alone,” said Beth.  “I’ll go with you.”

Maltha planted a kiss on her head.  “Beth, please.  Just this once.  Please listen to me when I ask you to stand back.  Just this one time.  For me.”

Beth stood on tiptoe to return the kiss.  “All right.  Anything for you.”

Maltha stood and faced the doorway, where a fresh scream rang out.

“Wait,” said Aziraphale.  “I’ll go with you.”

Maltha smiled sadly.  “Trying to make up for your comments earlier?  Don’t you think that’s a bit overkill?”

“Bloody Hell,” said Crowley.  “If he’s going then I guess I _have_ to also.”

“Aziraphale, Crowley.”  Maltha held out her hands.  “My first friends.  Will you face this with me?”

They took her hands.

“All right.  Then let’s go.”

They stepped across the threshold and into the holiest antechamber in the Heavenly Kingdom.

The hall was already a mess.  Uriel was the first thing their eyes fell to, because she was closest to the door, lying on the ground in a puddle of blood, either dead or dying.  Beyond, closer to the carved door leading to the throne itself, the Metatron was struggling against Mykas, whose jaws were snapping precariously close to their face.  Kabata, looking like his head had been bashed into the wall, hovered in the corner clutching his wounds, as though afraid to try and move.

And Death was there, leaning against the wall with his hands in his pockets, just watching.

Maltha let go of Aziraphale and Crowley and rushed forward, around Uriel, and menaced Kabata with her weapon.  Kabata held out his hand, like it would keep her at bay, and backed up.

Aziraphale looked over to see that Crowley, of all the things in this chaotic scene, was staring at Uriel.

“Crowley,” he said, squeezing the demon’s hand.

Crowley let go of him and knelt beside Uriel, putting his hands on her wounds and letting healing power out through his hands.  Grimacing, Aziraphale knelt beside him to help.

“She’s alive, but just barely,” said Crowley.

“You can let her die,” said Aziraphale gently.

Crowley did not respond.  Aziraphale figured.  He had never been able to talk Crowley out of showing anyone mercy.

Death let out a sigh and ambled down the red carpet, out of the hall.

Mykas was still in the process of beating the shite out of the Metatron. The archangel made an attempt to get out from under Mykas and dart away, but the archdemon’s mouth came up and closed around their arm, wrenching it out of its socket and hurling them into the wall like a rag doll.  Metatron hit the floor hard, then tried to scrabble away, but Mykas was on them again in an instant, stomping on them and snarling.

Maltha looked up from Kabata, who had made no move to attack. “Look at this,” she said, her lip peeling back in a sneer.  “His most loyal servant is fighting for their life a few feet away from Him, and _still_ He does nothing.”

She stalked away from Kabata and moved towards the door of the throne room.

“M-Maltha, what are you doing?” said Aziraphale fearfully.

“She’s not going to…?” said Crowley.

“You’ve _never_ lifted a finger to help any of us,” said Maltha.  “All powerful?  All knowing? So you must have seen this coming, and you chose to do nothing about it.  You would rather let your three most loyal servants be slaughtered than do a single thing to help anyone.”

“ _Don’t_ ,” shouted Aziraphale. “Maltha, don’t.”

“He has not seen fit to interfere before this point!” Maltha yelled.  “Why should He start now?”

“It’s ineffable,” fumbled Aziraphale. “Ineffability.  Ineffa—blast, Maltha!”

Mykas had seized Metatron’s neck in his jaws, and the Metatron, immobilised, watched Maltha’s advance towards the throne room with pained resignation, unable to even turn their head to look away.

“War and famine and death and rape and torture and murder and you _just sit there_ ,” Maltha raged.  “It’s what you’ve always done.  And when anyone dares to challenge you, you cast them out into darkness, and in the same breath claim to be _merciful_ and _loving_. The one who has unwarranted arrogance is _you._ ”

“Don’t,” said Crowley.  “Oh, somebody, Maltha, _don’t_.”

Maltha’s hand was on the door handle.  “Our Heavenly Father.  Your prodigal daughter is here.  Come out and face me.”

And she pulled the doors open.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN:  The lyrics at the beginning of this chapter are from “Seven Devils” by Florence and the Machine


	14. God Himself

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On tumblr at http://not-a-space-alien.tumblr.com/post/164935121085/falling-hazard-part-14-god-himself

  
  
  
  
  
  



	15. The Empty Throne

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On tumblr at http://not-a-space-alien.tumblr.com/post/164953944565/falling-hazard-part-15-the-empty-throne

 

It is one thing to scream and fight and rebel and make your great speeches to someone who you think hates you.

It is quite another to make them to an empty room.

As the door creaked open amidst the silence of everyone holding their breath, it revealed the continuation of the red carpet leading up the Almighty’s throne—which sat unoccupied.

Maltha stood in the open doorway, staring into the room with wide eyes. The doors hit the walls on either side with a dull _thud_ that echoed in the huge room. Nobody moved.

Kabata coughed.

Maltha turned around, her dumbfounded eyes sweeping across the room. “Well?  Where is He?”

Nobody responded.

“Hey,” said Maltha, holding her arm out towards the place where everyone had been convinced an all-powerful deity made its permanent residence.  “He doesn’t leave there.  He’s always there.  He’s always on the throne.”

Nobody responded.

Panic began to flare on her face.  This was the equivalent of going outside and being unable to find the sun in a clear midday sky.  “He doesn’t leave there!”

Mykas was still holding the Metatron like a chew toy.  Maltha walked over and grabbed the archangel.  Mykas resisted her pull, clamping down like they were engaged in a tug-of-war.

“Drop it,” Maltha snapped.

Mykas released the Metatron, and Maltha pulled them out of his jaw, holding them up and shaking them.  “Hey. Hey!  Where is He?”

Metatron’s windpipe had teeth marks all through it, and they struggled against her without answering.

She cursed and tossed them to the ground, then advanced on Kabata, who drew back into the corner.  “ _Where is He?_ ”

“I thought He was in there!” wailed Kabata.  

Maltha paced back down the red carpet to the threshold of the throne room, peering into it again, as though God might have been hiding inside of it. Then she whirled back around and stomped to Uriel, still lying prone on the floor.  “Where is He?  Huh?”

“She can’t answer you,” Crowley reminded her.

Maltha’s eyes roved down to Mykas, who made no attempt to move or contribute.  Then she looked back to Aziraphale, who raised his shoulders helplessly.

“Where is He?” she shouted to the whole room, an acutely freaked-out expression on her face.

Metatron, dropped on the carpet, made a break for the throne room, forcing themselves up and sprinting with wobbly steps.  Maltha, all the way over by Aziraphale and Crowley, was too far away and too late to realise she needed to stop them.

“Hey!” she shouted.  She reached the door to the throne room just as Metatron pulled it shut behind them. She flew into the door and kicked it full speed, but only succeeded in smashing her foot.

She fell down, righted herself, and started pounding on the door. “Metatron!   _Metatron!  Open this door!_ Explain yourself!   _Metatron!_ ”

She drew her hand back and cursed as her skin sizzled.  A red-hot sigil had appeared on the door, glowing faintly as its curly lines began to expand through the heavy, gilded door.

“Metatron!” she screamed as more and more anti-demon sigils grew through the door, crackling, barring her entry.  “Metatron, what have you done?  I demand you come out this instant and explain this to me!”

The expansion of the supernatural sigils halted only when the door was completely covered.  The air around the door wavered with heat.  Sweating, Maltha backed up.

Kabata dashed for the exit, knocking Aziraphale down on the way out.

“Hey!” shouted Maltha.  “Kabata!”

She gave a half-hearted chase, then stopped in the center of the room. Mykas sat with his ears flat to his head.

Aziraphale and Crowley looked at each other.

Maltha stomped out of the hall, then returned a moment later dragging a terrified-looking Vincent by his wrist.  “Destroy the door,” she commanded, pushing him towards it.  “I require entry to the throne room.”

“T-the throne room?” Vincent stuttered.  “I can’t—I can’t do that.”

“I insist you destroy the barrier to the inner chamber.”

“I can’t.”

“I insist you do.”

“I can’t.”

Maltha looked at him, then back at Aziraphale and Crowley, as though they would have any guidance.

“Then we’re leaving!” she said, in a fit of anger.  “The mission is over!”

“Over?” said Vincent.  “It’s over?”

Maltha stomped over and grabbed Crowley by the wrist, yanking him up away from Uriel, and dragged Aziraphale along by a wing.  Mykas rose to all fours and trotted out ahead of her.

The invading force cleared the throne room antechamber quickly, leaving Uriel bleeding out on the floor alone, the only sound the sizzling of the heated defenses on the inner chamber.

And just like that, the attack on Heaven was finished.

* * *

The Metatron removed their hands from the door, where the last of the defensive sigils now crawled over the surface.  The pounding on the door had stopped, but they could still hear the yelling.

Just barely.  It was a muffled, indistinct scream, but they could guess the words closely enough.

They turned around to look at the empty throne.  It was completely quiet in here, in this little bubble of a reminder of Him.  Even the angels whose jobs it had been to eternally chant His praises had given up and moved away.

It was just Metatron.

They wearily dragged themselves over, using their wings to lift themselves up onto the throne.  The elegant, carved structure was so huge they had to fly up a few meters before grabbing the edge, dragging themselves up and lying out on the seat, pooling blood underneath of them.

And they just lay there curled up, feeling very small in that enormous, empty seat, and cried.

* * *

Crowley forgot about the Bentley until well after the raid on Heaven was over, when he was standing in his kitchen and looked out the window to see that its usual parking spot was empty.

Oh, that would go over great, waltzing up to Heaven’s gates in the aftermath of an attack while they were cleaning up.  Just pop his head in.   _Hi, the gates?  That was me, sorry.  Anyway I’ll be taking my automobile back now.  Thanks, ciao._

That would go over wonderfully.  He’d probably be smitten before his feet even hit the clouds.

He supposed he’d just have to write the poor Bentley off as a loss. Who knows what they’d do to it. They had probably already removed it.

He thunked his head on the window, staring out, watching a lark on a telephone wire.

“Now what?” he said to the bird.

The bird flitted away.

Crowley occupied himself for a while with healing his wing.  It was difficult solely because of the angle, but as the tendon mended itself, he found himself shivering at the thought of what Uriel might have accomplished had she not been interrupted.  He pinned it to his back with a bandage to stop it from moving around, confident it would be back to normal without much trouble.

He could not say the same for the situation outside of his bodily injuries, though.

The buzzer sounded at his front door.  Crowley thought that maybe he ought to start taking down all the spray-paint he had absolutely decimated his flat with.  Maybe that would help things get back to normal.

He looked through the peephole.  It was Oryss standing in the hallway.

Crowley stepped out and shut the door behind him out of habit.  “Oryss,” he said, holding his hands out.  “It’s good to see you again.”

She took his hands.  “You too. Olivia was just telling me about what happened.”

“Crazy stuff, huh?”

“Yeah.”

They just stood in each other’s company, two friends feeling utterly overwhelmed.

“Olivia seemed pissed that Maltha pulled the plug before they were finished,” Oryss offered.  “Word just got out that Metatron is still alive.  Not sure about Uriel.”

Crowley shrugged.

“Is Maltha going to send out any kind of statement about the attack?” said Oryss.  “Not even Olivia knows why she called it quits so suddenly.”

“I don’t know,” said Crowley, who hadn’t yet told anyone what he had seen either.

“Well…” said Oryss.  “I just came by to get my Tupperware.  I left it here last time I was over.”

“Oh,” said Crowley.  “Yes, I almost forgot about that.  I washed it out for you.  Here, let me grab it.”

He turned back around and looked at the closed door, supernatural walls standing sturdy in his face.

“Do you…ah…Have a spare key?” said Oryss.

“Ah…no,” said Crowley.  “Whups.”

* * *

It felt like it had been years since Aziraphale had been in his shop instead of just the previous morning.  A cold cup of cocoa still sat on the kitchen counter, and his book was open on his desk.

Crowley had wanted to go back to his flat alone, so Aziraphale had let him without an argument, and gone back to his shop.  Now he wished he had tried to convince Crowley to come back with him. He found himself aimlessly going from the bedroom down to the kitchenette and out to the bookshop counter, then back again, only to sit at his desk and stare at the open pages of his book with unfocused eyes.

His head was full of too many restless thoughts, and he couldn’t share them with anyone except Crowley, his partner, the one he could share everything with.

The front doorbell jingled.  Aziraphale bolted from his desk and nearly tripped coming down the stairs.

Crowley was in the entrance, tucking his shades into his breast pocket.

“Hi,” said Aziraphale.

“Hi,” said Crowley.  He smiled cautiously.  “I, uh…kind of locked myself out of my flat.”

“You’re welcome to hang about here for a while.”

“Thanks.”

Aziraphale hesitated.  “Can we talk?”

“I was just thinking that.”

A few minutes’ time found them walking through St. James’s park with hands entwined together.  The ducks quacked at them demandingly when they were within bread-throwing distance, but neither had brought anything for them.

Crowley sat down and miracled one of the rolls in the window of the bakery the next block over into his hands.  He tore off a few pieces and tossed them.

“Listen,” said Aziraphale.  “I know I’m not perfect.  I realise how hurtful those things I said to you were.  I was scared, I wasn’t thinking, and I felt betrayed, but that doesn’t excuse it.  Nothing you could ever do would make you deserve to hear me say something so awful to you.  You’re the most important person in my life, and I love you.  Will you forgive me?”

Crowley’s hand came up and stroked Aziraphale’s cheek.  “I forgive you, angel.  I’m not so perfect myself.  I shouldn’t have hit you like that.”

Aziraphale smiled, putting his hand over Crowley’s.  “I deserved it.”

“No,” said Crowley.  “I mean it. You’ve been through a lot.  You were scared and confused and I just expected you to figure it out on your own.  I had no patience with you whatsoever.”

Aziraphale patted his hand.  “Then I guess we’ll just call it even.”

Crowley leaned into him, and Aziraphale stroked his hair.

“I’m lucky you’re such a forgiving demon,” said Aziraphale.

“You know, Aziraphale, it means a lot to me that even when you felt like I had betrayed you, you still insisted that I come with you instead of leaving me there in Hell.”

Aziraphale gave him a kiss.  “Well…even when I’m angry, I don’t know what I’d do without you…”

“Me neither.  And then I went and rushed ahead to try and save you, and you ended up nearly getting gutted by Uriel to save _me_ from my bad decision _…_ We’re no good when we’re apart, Aziraphale.”  

“Agreed.”

“From now on, let’s just…have each other’s’ backs, all right?  No matter what.  We stick together.”

Aziraphale kissed him, and he kissed back.  Crowley’s hands rubbed at Aziraphale’s neck softly.  Aziraphale’s hands held him firmly by his waist.

“Let’s not fight again, all right?” said Crowley.  “I missed you.”

“Likewise, my dear,” said Aziraphale.

A particularly impatient duck waddled up to the bench to investigate what was delaying its meal.  Crowley tossed the rest of the roll to it.

“Here comes trouble,” said Aziraphale.

Crowley followed his gaze to see a blonde woman with a big black bird on her shoulder picking her way towards them.

Crowley raised a hand and waved to her.  “Hey, Beth.”

Beth held her arm out, and the bird alighted on her hand, then dropped to the ground.  Beth wedged herself between Aziraphale and Crowley, spreading all her limbs out on the bench, letting out a tired sigh.

“How’s it feel to be a free woman again?” said Crowley.

“Bloody Hell, as you Brits say,” said Beth.  “I feel like I’ve got a Heavenly hangover.”

“Not uncommon when dealing with the Holy Boneheads,” laughed Crowley.  “Take some Aspirin.  It’ll go away eventually.”

The black bird, which had been pecking aimlessly at the ground, shifted into a huge woman.  But she did not take a seat on the bench.

“Hello, Maltha,” said Crowley.

Maltha stood there wringing her hands.

Beth sighed.  “She wants a hug, but she’s too embarrassed to ask for it.”

“B-beth!” said Maltha.

Crowley smiled sadly.  “Well?”

Biting her lip, Maltha nodded.

Crowley slipped off the bench and encircled his arms around Maltha as high as he could, which was about her chest.  The archdemon lay her head on top of his, sniffling.

Aziraphale stood.  “Maltha, I’d like to say something to you.”

Crowley withdrew, and Maltha stood facing him, waiting.

“Listen…” said Aziraphale.  “I don’t think I was entirely fair to you.  I’m certain this has been very stressful for you.  On top of having to keep Hell in line, you also had your sweetheart taken from you, were framed for the destruction of the Temple, were declared war on, and were expected to lead a siege against Heaven itself or die trying. Under those circumstances, anybody might make a few mistakes here and there, and, well…you were right about me, apparently.  I made a real arse out of myself, and I want to apologise.  I know you’re really only friends with me for Crowley’s sake, so I don’t expect any great show of kissing and making up, but I hope we can still…well, be cordial with each other.”

Maltha let out a sound and reached an arm towards him.  “Aziraphale, this whole time you thought I was only friends with you because of Crowley?  I’m so sorry.”

Aziraphale hesitantly went to her, and she wrapped an arm around him. “Aziraphale, you were the first angel to ever treat me like a person.  To ever show me mercy.  You helped me see the value in the Earth.  You shared your funnel cake with me, even though you obviously wanted to keep it for yourself.”

Blushing, Aziraphale cleared his throat.

“Of course I can forgive you, Aziraphale.  Your friendship is worth more to me than all of Hell.  I will treasure it for as long as you’re willing to give it to me.”

Aziraphale blushed more deeply.

Maltha let out a great sigh and plopped down onto the bench next to Beth. “I swear by somebody, I can’t get all the aches out from yesterday.  We all really kicked the crap out of each other.”  She pinched the bridge of her nose.  “And we only got one-third of the way through our agreement.  I suspect the coalition of angels isn’t too happy with me. They’ve disbursed back to Earth for now, though, so I’m not expecting any angry mobs soon.”

“One-third?” said Aziraphale.  “Then Uriel…”

“Survived,” huffed Maltha.  “Maybe I should have kept Raphael in Hell just a little longer, so she would have died of her wounds.”

“Well,” said Crowley, “I can’t imagine she’ll be in fighting shape any time soon.”

“Mmm, yes,” said Maltha.  “The revelation that demons can get into Heaven by itself should be enough to give Heaven some pause.  Should push back any further attacks.  That and…”

Her heavy gaze fell to the ground.

“Yes, and _that,_ ” said Aziraphale.  “I admit I have been unable to stop thinking about it.”

“I guess we didn’t even need the angel dust,” said Maltha.  “Nobody really even thought to check.  Why would we?”

“Yeah,” said Crowley.  “I don’t know what I really expected, but…it wasn’t that.”

Maltha put her face in one hand, and with the other she unfurled a piece of parchment.

“What’s this?” said Aziraphale, taking a corner.

“A message from the Metatron,” said Maltha.  “They wish to have a conference with us.”

“Us?”

“Me, you, Crowley, and Kabata.”

“…Everyone who saw the empty throne,” said Crowley, peering over Aziraphale’s shoulder.  “Except for Mykas.”

The letter was in Metatron’s handwriting, an unsteady scrawl which read:

_To the archdemon Maltha, former Bearer of Divine Healing, current regent ruler of Hell:_

_We have a great desire to speak with you.  A nonviolent conference will benefit us all.  Please bring Aziraphale, Crowley, and Kabata with you.  We assure you there will be no retaliation.  We are not in a state to retaliate, anyway._

_-The Archangel Metatron, former Voice of God._

“Do you trust them?” said Crowley.

Maltha rolled the parchment back up.  “Trust them?  No.  But do I think they’re lying about not being _able_ to perform any sort of retaliation for what just happened in Heaven?  No.  And do I want whatever information the Metatron intends to deliver in this conference?  Yes, very badly.  I think we all know what they want to talk about.”

“Indubitably,” said Aziraphale.

“Whether or not you two are going to go, I leave that up to you.  I wouldn’t blame you for sitting this one out, and I’m sure I could figure out something to tell Metatron.”

“I’ll go,” said Aziraphale.

Crowley grimaced.  He was already being tested on the whole “let’s always stick together” thing they had promised each other just recently.  “All right,” he said regretfully after a few moments.  “I’ll go, too.”

“My court spellcaster has a way to summon Kabata however far away he is, so all I have to do is wrestle him into submission.  Frankly, I suspect Metatron may demand his execution, and I’m not too interested in fighting that.”

Nobody argued with her on that point.

“I’ll not have him causing any trouble, so he _will_ be restrained.”

“…with the sigil from the Key of Solomon?” said Crowley.

“I’m afraid that’s the best option, so yes.  Why?  Something the matter?”

“No,” said Crowley with a sense of odd satisfaction.  “No, nothing at all.  That’s fine.”

Maltha gave no indication that she knew about what had happened with that sigil and Crowley, but she _had_ to have found out somehow, Crowley thought.  When they finally met Kabata, the septacle had been burned into his flesh in the exact same spot where Camael had forced Aziraphale to burn it onto Crowley.

When the four of them had assembled, Kabata crossed his arms.  “I suppose it’s time for the torture now?”

“I suppose being forced to talk to Metatron counts as torture,” said Maltha. “We are expected.”

“And there’s no point in trying to convince you not to make me go with this thing burned onto me, is there?”

“None at all.”

“All right,” said Crowley, understandably nervous.  “Can we get on with it?  Where is the meeting supposed to be?”

Maltha showed him the scroll again, which had a location at the very bottom, underneath the signature.

“There?” said Crowley, dismayed.  “ _Must_ we?”

“Apparently,” said Maltha, materialising a heavy jacket.  “Why there of all places, I don’t know.  Uriel must have picked the meeting place.  No other angel in the garrison could be this damn overdramatic.”

* * *

It took a few rounds of teleportation to even get within a reasonable distance of their destination.  Kabata, predictably, did not look happy about any of it, and grudgingly pointed out he would need help since he was inflicted with the binding sigil that barred use of any of his demonic powers.

The final jump through space landed their feet in deep snow drifts, in a kind of cold none of them had ever experienced before, at the very bottom of the world.

Maltha snapped snow goggles onto her face.  “Right.  Let’s get going.  I think I see them over there.”

She began to trek forwards.  Aziraphale and Crowley linked arms and slogged through the snow to follow her, holding each other close.

“Aziraphale, whatever happens, whatever we find out,” said Crowley.  “I love you.”

“I love you, Crowley!” said Aziraphale.

Maltha turned back to see that Kabata had not moved.  “Come on!”

The snow that had accumulated on Kabata’s horns dislodged as he moved, bulldozing the snow out of his way to catch up to Aziraphale and Crowley.  He tugged on Crowley’s sleeve, and when he spoke, it was barely audible over the howling wind.  “Crowley, I…  Look, I know what I…  What I did to you…”

Crowley halted in his tracks, looking at Kabata.  “Are…are you trying to apologise to me?”

Tear tracks were frozen on Kabata’s face.  “What I did to you as an angel was petty and mean and there wasn’t any good reason for it other than I could.  And what I did to you as a demon, I…  I’m a jerk, okay!  I know I’m a jerk!”

“You’re just realising that now?” said Aziraphale.  

Maltha gave no indication that she was listening as she plodded on.  

“Look, I’m pretty sure I’m going to die here one way or another,” said Kabata. “And I thought maybe I could die with more honour than I lived.”

“Well, that’s very noble of you,” said Aziraphale, who did not feel like trying to figure out whether he had it in his heart to forgive him.

“I know I’m not in any position to be asking favours, but I was hoping there’s something you could do for me,” said Kabata.

“No,” said Aziraphale.

“What is it, Kabata?” Crowley said.

“That demon who stole the angel dust from you.  She only did that because I made her.  She doesn’t deserve any of the punishment I’m going to get.  Her name is Yulera.  She has a hideout in the rocks in the southwest corner of the seventh layer.  And she’s been waiting for six-thousand years to see the Earth.  Will you take her up there?  Please.  Not for me. But for her.”

Crowley stood staring at him through the snow.  “Genuine love.  I’m sure you’ve never felt it before.  It changes you, doesn’t it?  But not in ways that you’d expect.”

The wind howled.  The snow whipped at them.

“Out of all the places I expected to see kindness,” said Kabata, “she was my last guess.  She deserves so much better than what she has.  Than Hell.  Than...me.”

“I’ll do it,” said Crowley.  “I’ll give her a ride in my car.”

“And will you tell her?” said Kabata.  “That it was the cockatrice?  From out of the bestiary?  The cockatrice was my favourite.  She’ll know what you mean.”

“I’ll tell her,” said Crowley.

“Thank you,” said Kabata.  “Thank you so much, Crowley.  I’m so sorry I chose…this.  This path. That I hurt you.  You don’t deserve that, either.”

Maltha had stopped ahead of them, too far ahead to hear their conversation. “Quit dragging your feet!” she yelled back.

“Tell her,” said Crowley.

“Tell her what?” said Kabata.

“Everything you just told me.  She might take pity on you.  She might protect you.”

Maltha had begun to wade her way back to them through the snow.

“Don’t try to save me, Crowley,” said Kabata.  “Make no mistake…I deserve whatever’s coming to me.”

“Why are you all dallying here in the snow?” Maltha growled upon reaching them. “Come on.  Don’t think you can get out of this, you wretch.”

Kabata started forwards again without further prompting.

“Look, that must be it,” said Maltha, gesturing to something in the distance.

When they got closer to it, they saw a space had been cleared in the snow, and a swathe of green grass was growing in a circle.  The Metatron and Uriel were sitting at a small table in the center of the oasis of calm amidst the whipping snow.

“Here we go,” said Aziraphale.

As their feet made the transition from snow to grass, the howling of the wind faded and the snow ceased to touch them, as though they had stepped through an invisible barrier defining a room.  It was warm and pleasant and there were flowers growing under their feet.  There was a pot of tea on the table, ringed by a fine set of teacups.  

It was difficult to judge who looked unhappier, Metatron or Uriel.  It was also difficult to judge who was hurt worse. Metatron’s throat was wrapped tightly up, and they were missing an eye.  Uriel’s entire leg was still gone.

Maltha shook the snow off herself and let her jacket drop to the floor.  “I see Raphael still needs some more time to work on you two,” she said, a wry smile creeping over her face.

They both scowled at her.  “Please have a seat,” said Uriel.

They took their coats off and pulled their chairs up.  Except Crowley, who stood and looked at Uriel with understandable wariness.

“Sit,” said Uriel.

Crowley pulled a chair out, one that would put Maltha between Uriel and himself, and sat down.

“Look!  It _can_ be trained!” said Uriel.

Crowley grew red.  Maltha and Aziraphale both glared daggers at Uriel.

“Please have some tea,” said Uriel.  Nobody had ever managed to invite someone else to help themselves to tea with as much malice as she did just then.

Aziraphale and Maltha poured themselves some.  Crowley politely declined.  Kabata, whose meaty paws were clearly too big for the teacup, and who was not in a position to change his shape, did not even bother trying.

Uriel cleared her throat.  “And now that we have gathered here, in the most desolate spot in Creation, in the furthest icy clutches of—”

“Jesus,” said Maltha, “just get on with it, or we’ll be here all day.”

Uriel sourly put her hands back on the table.  “For the record, _I_ did not want to attend this meeting.   _I_ thought this was a bad idea. But the Metatron thought we should proceed with haste before the situation got out of control, even before Raphael could finish healing the two of us.  And seeing as how _somebody_ who shall remain nameless destroyed the Metatron’s throat, rendering them unable to speak...”

Maltha groaned.

“…I was forced to attend and speak for them.”

Uriel did not sound particularly happy about it.  The Metatron, glowering from under their shroud of bandages, did not look particularly happy about it.  And perhaps most of all, Maltha did not seem particularly happy about it.

“I’m _not_ listening to everything being filtered through _you_ for however long this takes, Uriel,” said Maltha hotly.

“I don’t like this any more than you do,” said Uriel.

“Oh, I’m positive I dislike this much, much more than you do,” said Maltha.

Uriel leaned back.  “And yet you have no alternative if you want your information, which I can see on your warped little face you clearly do.  So we shall move on.  Our first order of business is thusly:   _He_ dies.”

Her finger was pointed at Kabata, who gripped the table with sweaty palms.

The voiceless Voice of God tugged at Uriel’s sleeve with a stormy look.

“We are _all_ in agreement that it should be Kabata’s fate to be executed here,” said Uriel, ignoring Metatron. “We are all perfectly in accord with Heaven’s will.  There is no reason any of us would ever disagree.”

Metatron sat back and crossed their arms.  Uriel muttered something that sounded like _Doesn’t feel so good to be on that side of it, does it?_

“I thought this meeting would be nonviolent,” said Maltha.  “And you want to kill someone I’ve brought with me?”

“Don’t pretend you care for him, Maltha,” said Uriel.  “He has done something to harm practically everyone in Creation.  No one will mourn his passing.”

Maltha sipped her tea.  Kabata’s eyes bounced back and forth between her and Uriel tensely.

“And this meeting will not continue, and you will not get your information, until he has been removed,” Uriel added.  “This is not negotiable.”

“All right,” said Maltha.  “Fine, I’ll grant you that.  He has been nothing but trouble for us.  Do as you want.  I won’t stop you.”

Kabata and Uriel both pushed their chairs back to stand simultaneously. Kabata turned to run; Uriel materialised a bow, drew an arrow back, and released it.  The arrow cleared the two or three meters between Uriel and Kabata instantly, _thunk_ ing directly through his skull.  He toppled over his chair with the force of the blow, sprawled out on the ground, feet up in the air.

Maltha unfolded her hands and played with her teacup, trying to hide her discomfort.  Crowley and Aziraphale looked down at the dead archdemon’s newly emptied corporation with horror.  

And…and Crowley just could not help himself.  He knelt down and put his hands on Kabata, tilting the archdemon’s head. But he was already dead, eyes rolled back in their sockets.

He continued kneeling there for a few moments, scared to stand back up and see what everyone else’s reactions would be.

“Are you quite finished?” said Uriel’s voice.

He stood, sweating.  Everyone was looking at him.

“What kind of healer is this?” said Uriel, disgusted.  Her bow disappeared, and she reseated herself.  “It attends to enemies, even the most loathsome creature who deserves no help.”

Maltha slammed her teacup on her saucer.  “Yes, and you’d be _dead_ if he was not so soft-hearted, Uriel, as _one of_ those creatures who deserve no help.”

“What are you talking about, demon?” said Uriel, face twisting.

Crowley scooted himself a bit further away from Kabata, dismayed that it appeared the conversation was going to continue with his dead corporation lying there with an arrow sprouting from its head.

“Nobody told you?” said Maltha.  “Crowley saved your life while you were bleeding out in the throne room.”

Uriel’s outraged gaze snapped to Crowley, who slunk lower in his seat.  “That is absurd.  Why would he do that?”

“I’m asking myself that same damn question right now,” said Crowley savagely.

Clearly frazzled, Uriel downed the rest of her tea in one gulp and poured herself more.  “There is no motivation for any demon to help me,” said Uriel.  “They all hate me.”

“It’s not hard to see why,” Maltha snapped.  “But he helped you because _unlike_ you he cannot stand to see others suffering when it is within his power to help them.”

Uriel stared at Crowley very hard.  Crowley, determined for once not to be cowed and embarrassed, stared back with as much gall as he could muster.

“And just so you are aware,” said Maltha, “if the decision had been in _my_ hands, you would have died long before anyone else could have reached you.   _Now then_ , if your bloodthirst has finally been sated, can we _please_ get to the point of this meeting?  I’m positive it wasn’t to put Crowley under a microscope.”

“I consider it no great surprise that the ruler of the kingdom of darkness would have refused to show mercy to me,” said Uriel.  “Considering that being a cruel tyrant is your job description.” She bitterly sipped her tea.  “And considering the serpent attends to whatever strikes his fancy at the time, I won’t feel so flattered that he put his hands on me.”

“Only you would find out Crowley saved your life and mock him for it, Uriel,” said Aziraphale.  

“You’re one mouthy principality,” said Uriel.  “I’m surprised you didn’t fall like the filthy creature that constantly defiles you.”

Aziraphale spluttered indignantly.

Maltha put her teacup down with exaggerated, tense calmness.  “All right.  I’m done with this.  Metatron, come here.  I’m going to heal your throat so you can speak.  I’m not listening to Uriel anymore.”

Metatron drew back with a fearful look as Maltha stuck her hand out.  “You will certainly not lay your filthy, perverted hands on the Voice of God!” Uriel shrieked. 

“This is ridiculous,” scoffed Maltha.  “There are two healers at this table, and Metatron continues to labour under incapacitating wounds.”

“Absolutely not!” said Uriel, standing, stamping her foot.  

“Uriel, if I wanted to hurt either of you, I would have already started instead of subjecting myself to this inane conversation for so long,” said Maltha testily.  “I can’t get the information I want if I kill Metatron.  Please just stop complaining and let me do this.”

The Metatron wobbly got to their feet and stood beside Maltha.  Maltha stood and held out her hands.  “There we go,” she said.  “Crowley, come help me with this, would you?”

The Metatron flinched back as Maltha’s hands reached their throat. “It’s all right,” said Maltha. “Just stand still.”

Uriel crossed her arms and plopped back into her seat, finishing another cup of tea and moving onto the next, angrily pretending not to be interested.

The Metatron squeezed their eyes shut as Maltha’s aura connected with theirs, prying it open and stroking the raw wounds in their true form.  The archangel would not stop trembling under her hands.  “You’re doing very well,” cooed Maltha.  “This won’t take very long.”

It was a few minutes of precise work.  The whole time Maltha was disparaging Raphael mentally for somehow not getting it done.

“This is inappropriate,” said Uriel.  “To the highest degree.”

“Oh, Uriel, _shut up,_ ” said the Metatron’s raspy voice.

Maltha withdrew.  Metatron massaged their throat, coughing.

“Drinking some tea with honey might help,” suggested Maltha.

“I think we’re done here,” said Metatron coldly.  They took their seat next to Uriel once more.  They tried to be discreet about miracling a few drops of honey for their tea, but everyone noticed anyway.

Maltha regained her seat between Aziraphale and Crowley.  “Now, _maybe_ , can we get to the point before we sit here bickering until the inevitable heat-death of the universe?”

Metatron slurped their tea.  “Yes, the point,” they said.  “The point is we wanted to have a discussion with those who saw that God’s throne was empty.”

“Okay,” said Maltha impatiently.  “But Mykas also saw it.”

“We meant those who are important,” said Uriel.  “That beast may be what’s left of Heaven’s noblest warrior, but he’s still just an attack dog, nothing more.  I’m sure you’ll keep him in line just as Heaven did.  He need not be involved in any of the weighty discussions.

Maltha inhaled deeply.  “Uriel. Metatron.  Do you still not understand that that attitude is exactly why Michael turned against you as soon as someone else helped him get out from under your control?  Are you really so cruel?  He is intelligent and curious.  You’ve done nothing with that but let it fester until he went mad.”

Uriel and Metatron looked at each other, then back to her.

“You give him far too much credit,” said Uriel.  “He runs wild at the slightest opportunity.  He needs a leash.  You’ll regret it if you don’t provide him one.”

“If that’s really how you think,” said Maltha, “then I think he will be much happier as a demon.”

“The queen of Hell means to preach to us about cruelty,” said Uriel. “Spare us.”

All the sniping was too much for Aziraphale and Crowley, who were now downing tea that had been augmented with alcohol.

“All right,” said Metatron.  “We said we were going to get to the topic at hand.”

“Yes, the topic at hand,” said Maltha.  “We are here to discuss God’s empty throne.  Tell me about it.”

“You were asking where God was,” said Metatron.  “We thought it might be prudent to tell you, before things got out of control.”

Maltha took gulps of her tea, trying to hide her desperation to know.

“How to begin…” rasped the Metatron, swirling their teacup.  “The first thing you should know…would be that God is a…different class of being entirely.  The reason we cannot comprehend Him is because He is simply on a different scale.”

Maltha looked at Aziraphale, then at Crowley, then back to Metatron.  “Yes, we already knew that.”

“Just let us talk,” Metatron said with irritation.  “He is a different _class_ of being.  We are not sure if there are others like Him, but He is from elsewhere other than this universe, this pocket of space and time.”

Silence fell in their little bubble, the snow and wind howling muffled a few feet away from them.

“God is an alien,” said Crowley.  “Is that what you’re saying?”

“Crowley, if you’re not going to take this seriously, I’ll have you removed,” said Metatron.

Crowley, who had in fact been asking in earnest, clamped his mouth shut.

“The point is He is a different _type_ of being,” said Metatron.  “Very powerful on a scale above us.  But not truly immortal, just as we aren’t.  Not truly all-powerful.  But very good at convincing everyone that He is, because no one is in a position to question Him.  But He has needs just as we do, and suffers if they are not fulfilled….or, I should say, _had_ …”

Aziraphale took a gulp of tea with a shaking hand.

“What are you saying?” said Maltha.  “Tell me.  I want to hear you say it.”

“God is dead,” said Metatron.  “He had been sick for a while, and we were unable to save Him.”

The snow raged distantly against their pocket of calm.

“Dead?” said Crowley.  “You mean like literally, physically dead?  Not in the metaphorical, Nietzsche way?”

“I do not know what that means,” said Metatron.  “But yes, there is nothing metaphorical about it.  I suspect He may have left before the sickness overtook Him, to save Himself, but he was very weak.  On the verge of death.  If He _did_ simply leave, I suspect he is not coming back. So either He is dead, or He is somewhere else, but either way, He is gone.”

“Metatron and I were originally the only ones who knew what was happening with Him,” said Uriel.  “Because we were the only ones who attended to Him.  His true nature and the extent of His sickness was not clear to us until undeniable physical symptoms began to manifest.”

“We tried our best to keep it hidden,” said the Metatron.  “I did the best I could to mitigate the damage He was doing, but His mental state began to spiral, and not only did He get physically violent, but He also started giving contradictory commands.”

“People often wonder what happened to the vengeful God of wrath who burned Sodom and Gomorrah and now sits so silent,” said Uriel, sniffing. “The truth is He was still there. He was always there.  He just…wasn’t quite what everyone thought He was.  He was growing steadily weaker over time for reasons we could not figure out.  He would not tell us.  He was never as powerful as He was in the beginning, when He first made the universe.”

“He told us the war would save Him,” said Metatron.  “He needed food of a different kind.  I do not know exactly what it was.  Attention.  Worship. Chaos, war, bloodshed.  Something.  Perhaps it was human souls themselves.  But apparently He was not getting enough of it.”

“Hold on, back up,” said Crowley, throwing his hands up.  “Humans souls themselves?  What do you mean?  Food?”

“This perpetual dance between our sides, between good and evil, sustained Him somehow,” said Metatron.  “He would not tell me how.  But once I…saw Him eat a human soul.”

Everyone stared at Metatron.

“You saw Him….” said Aziraphale.

“Yes,” said Metatron.

“ _Eat._ ”

“Yes.”

“A human soul.”

Metatron kneaded their hands.  “He thought no one was watching.”

Even Uriel seemed a little disturbed by that.  “Oh, get over it, Metatron.  It’s pathetic you’d be so affected by seeing that,” she said, although it was obvious not even she believed what she was saying.  There was no bravado or scorn in her voice, just weakly masked disquiet.

Nevertheless, the Metatron snapped, perhaps more out of impatience than genuine anger, “Well, I’m sorry we can’t all be as heartless as you, Uriel. Some of us are actually affected by the things we see.”

Uriel took a sip of tea and did not argue.

“I don’t know what to make of it,” said Metatron.  “But it didn’t matter.  There was only one path that led to His survival.  We had to start the war at any cost, because His power was dwindling by the day.  But given His deteriorating state, we had to do it alone, without Him, sometimes even against His commands. He was starting to break down mentally as well as spiritually. He started giving orders that went against His own self-interest.”

“When God found out about the two of you,” said Uriel, with a look at Aziraphale and Crowley.  “He threw a tantrum.  He was disgusted.  He demanded you be separated.”

“What?” said Aziraphale with astonishment.

“It was His will that you fall, Aziraphale,” said Uriel.  “That would have been your fate, had things gone according to His wishes.”

“He blamed you for ruining the war and wanted to see you suffer for it,” said Metatron.  “But we knew that wouldn’t accomplish anything, and we had to move on our own if the war was ever going to happen.  In a moment of clarity, God told me to put the war as the priority, even if it meant disobeying Him.  We had no time to focus on something like breaking up you two and punishing Aziraphale. So we told Him we would see to it, then never did.  His omnipotence was shrinking, so He _wouldn’t_ have found out, except that you tried to pray to Him.”  They took an angry sip of tea.

“You lied to God?” said Aziraphale.  “You just… _lied_ to Him?  To protect me?  To protect _us?_ ”

“I don’t see what bloody choice we had!” the Metatron yelled as loud as their voice would allow.  “Calling a tribunal would have meant a fatal delay in the war efforts!  We tried our best!  And it still did not work.”  Metatron downed their tea, then poured more, then downed that as well.  Crowley suspected theirs also had alcohol in it now.  “And then one day He was just gone, with no warning as to where He went!  And then we had to scramble to prioritise hiding His absence!”

“Metatron thought casting Michael out of Heaven would be the best course of action,” said Uriel.  “Because the war, had it proceeded, would have failed at the critical moment when God was supposed to participate, thus revealing the glaring fact of His absence. Raphael’s proposed fate for Michael was a convenient escape, stopping the war after we had put up such a fuss over starting it, thus allowing us to delay the inevitable revelation of God’s departure from this world.”

“Mmm,” said Maltha.  “It sounds like you had other ideas, though?”

Uriel set her teacup down.  “Why, funny you should mention that!   _I_ thought that delivering Heaven’s sword straight into the hands of the likes of _you_ would inevitably backfire on us.  And I was exactly right!  But what do I know?  Right, Metatron?”

“Look,” said Metatron hotly.  “I don’t know what you wanted me to do.  This whole damned series of events has been nothing but one disaster after another. Gabriel insists stealing Maltha’s human pet will provoke her into attacking, and that backfired.  Gabriel insists destroying the Temple would generate enough outrage that the momentum would start the war, and _that_ backfired.   _Then_ he insisted promoting Victoria would help us resolve the situation with Raphael, and _that_ backfired even harder.  Maybe I didn’t always make the best decisions!  It’s not like I had any competent help!  And I was scared!  Yes, I admit it!  I was scared!  Because He kept calling out to—”

Metatron clamped a hand over their mouth.

Uriel looked at them sharply.  “Oh? This is new.”

“Please continue, Metatron,” prompted Maltha.

Metatron put their hand back to their teacup miserably.  “He kept…calling for someone to come save Him.  He…”  They downed their tea, taking a very long draught, as if to avoid answering.

“Metatron,” said Maltha.

“He kept calling someone,” said Metatron.  “A number of Someones.  That He said He missed, that He regretted leaving behind somewhere, that He wanted to be reunited with.  And yes, I admit that I was _bloody fucking terrified_ of someone answering that call, because the more I thought about it and listened to Him, the more He sounded like a scared human child calling out for His family to come save Him, and not even I could imagine what horrors might befall Creation should _that_ happen!  The war would be a humane ending for us compared to that!”

Everyone at the table sat reeling from what Metatron had just dumped on them.

“Hold on,” said Crowley.  “Are you saying there might be _more?_ Like Him?  That He has _family?_ ”

“I bloody fucking hope not!” said Metatron.  “Because one was bad enough!  We bent over backwards to make Him happy, to not second-guess Him, to entertain Him like we were a damnable toy, and He still threw tantrums and abused us. And yes!  I’ve been holding that in for six-thousand years, and yes I’m finally going to say it!  I can’t stand Him!  I hope I never see Him again!  He is cruel and child-like!”  They drank tea with a shaking hand.

“Then the obvious next question,” said Maltha gently, “is to ask:  Why did you simply not let Him die, Metatron?  Why did you work so hard to save Him?”

They both stared at her.

“It sounds like he had a function like Michael’s inbuilt obsolescence that made Him steadily weaker over time.  And if He needed us for sustenance, that would make Him like a parasite feeding off of us.”

“That is exactly what Camael said,” said Metatron softly.  “He said we should let God die.  He said we didn’t need Him.  That the archangels could do it themselves.  That we essentially already were, since God had done nothing but sit on the throne and demand supplication for centuries by that point.”

“And I suspect that is why Kabata made his bid for Hell’s throne,” said Uriel. “His knowledge of God’s vulnerability would have put him in a unique position to win the war in a way no other demon could have dreamed of.”  She sipped her tea, disgusted.  “To finish what he had set out to do in Heaven.  To finish Him off.”

“That’s why you threw him out,” said Crowley.  “Not because of what he did to me or anyone else.  Because he disagreed with you on what direction Heaven should go in.  And that was dangerous, at a time when you needed to have everyone on the same page.”

“It wasn’t hard to convince Raphael and Michael to go along with it, after what Camael did to you,” said Uriel.  “And it was easy enough to make everyone think that was the real reason.  The truth never came out even at his tribunal.”

“And you had to protect the Tyrant at any cost,” said Maltha.  “Even if it meant throwing your brother to the wolves.”

“You make us sound like monsters,” said Metatron.  “We were only fulfilling our duties.  That’s all we’ve ever done.”

“That’s all anyone’s ever done,” said Maltha.  “Our duties.”  She swirled her tea.  “And how shall we comfort ourselves, the murderers of all murderers?”

“What?” said Uriel.

She set her cup down and wiped her mouth with a napkin.  “Thank you for telling me this.  But I cannot help but wonder why you have been so straightforward with me.  You do realise you’ve just given me everything I need to destroy you, don’t you?”

“Just as we said,” said Metatron.  “You all saw the empty throne.  You would have wildly speculated and came to your own conclusions, and did with them what you will.  It would have gotten out of hand.”  They took a draught of tea.  “With _both_ of our overseers of affairs on Earth gone, that just leaves us with Victoria to run Earthly affairs, someone help us.  We’re going to need all the stability and order we can get.”

“The three of you are all intelligent enough to see the importance of keeping this information confidential,” said Uriel.  “Heaven is already going to be in chaos with the loss of two archangels and the realization that demons can get into Heaven. The fear of authority is all that maintains any sense of order in creation.  Take that away, and it will all break down into chaos.  Hell, Heaven, and Earth.  Not even you would benefit from that, Maltha.  And so you’ll walk away from this table with the full intention of keeping things under control, by keeping it to yourself.”

“Is _that_ what I’m going to?” murmured Maltha.

Uriel and Metatron looked at each other.  “Of course,” said Metatron.  

“You should know that I have a long history of not doing what people expect of me.”

Silence, except for the wind howling.

“I’ll punish those rebel angels,” Uriel threatened.  “I remember the names of every single one of those little ingrates that cheered to see my execution.  I’ll tear their pages out of the Book of Life, every one of them.  I’ll purge them from Heaven.  There’s nothing to hold me back now.  I’ll throw _you_ out.”

This last bit was directed at Aziraphale.  And Aziraphale smiled.

“You know, Uriel,” said Aziraphale.  “I think at one point, that threat would have scared me.”

Uriel recoiled.

“Doesn’t seem like much of a punishment now,” said Maltha with a sly smile. “Doesn’t seem to matter now who is an angel and who is a demon.  Does it?”

Uriel looked at her with hatred, her one authority completely undermined.

Maltha drained her tea, then put her cup on her saucer upside-down.  “Thank you for your hospitality.”  Then, she stood and eyed the two of them up.

She was judging whether or not she could kill them both, here, over the table.  It was obvious to everyone present.

Then, her face took on a weary expression, and she sighed.  “I think you two can rest yourselves of any worries of a second strike on Heaven.  I think Mykas has had quite enough violence for several lifetimes, and I have no interest in carrying on this fight by myself.  As long as you see to it things remain peaceable on your end, I will do the same from Hell.  But I make no promises regarding the information you have disclosed to me here.”

“The information…?” said Metatron, sounding like they knew they had made one more mistake in their long line of mistakes.

“Aziraphale, Crowley,” said Maltha, pushing her chair in.  “I think we’re done here.  Let’s go.”

“Maltha,” said Metatron, standing.  “You won’t tell anyone.  We have to keep up the appearance that God is still here and directing things, or else everything will dissolve into the kind of chaos that governs Earth.  You can’t.”

Maltha turned back to look at them.  “Welcome to free will, Metatron.”

Aziraphale and Crowley joined her in replacing their heavy jackets.

“Maltha!” said Uriel, hobbling to a standing position.  “Maltha!”

“We’ll probably be seeing each other again,” said Maltha.  “It would be a lie to say I look forward to it, but I’ve got to get back to Hell for now.  Thanks to you, I have a backlog of lost cuddling time with my girlfriend to make up for, and I fully intend to make use of it.”

She wrapped a scarf around her face before stepping out into the blizzard, Crowley and Aziraphale hugging tightly to either side.

“Maltha!” said Uriel, pounding the table.  “Maltha!”

But her words were lost in the chaos of the blizzard, and the three figures disappeared into it without another backwards glance.


	16. As Below, So Above

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On tumblr at http://not-a-space-alien.tumblr.com/post/164974863090/falling-hazard-part-16-as-below-so-above

Uriel slammed the doors of the inner chamber of the Book of Life open. She had no reason to be here, none except it was where she felt most comfortable, and she needed comfort.

She stomped around the pedestal upon which the holy relic sat, cursing and muttering angrily.  Metatron came in after her.  “Uriel.”

“Who does he think he is?” Uriel snapped, as though Metatron would answer her. “That little snake.  That filthy little demon.  Trying to lie to me about something like that.  Save my life?  Save my _life?_ ”

“They weren’t lying,” said Metatron.  “I saw him laying hands on you while Mykas attacked me.”

“You _saw_ him?”

“…In between being mauled, yes.”

“Who does he think he is!” she repeated.  “To lay hands on me?  Me? The Keeper of the Divine Aura?”

“Uriel,” said Metatron.

Uriel kicked one of the support pillars in the room.  “I’ll kill him.  I’ll skin him alive.  I’ll rip off his wings and drop him into the Lake of Fire.”

“Uriel.”

“I was ready to die!” Uriel wailed, tears brimming over and rolling down her cheeks.  “What am I supposed to do without Him?  What good am I?  What is my purpose?”

Uriel pointed her hand at the center of the room, and a pit of fire opened up, crackling.

“Doesn’t matter who is an angel and who is a demon!” Uriel roared, stepping up to the pedestal.  “Fine!”

She seized the Book of Life and took it off the pedestal.

Metatron felt the fabric of Heaven shudder with the movement, and they immediately leapt in between Uriel and the holy fire she had summoned.  Just in time; Uriel stepped forward, holding the Book aloft, as if to toss it in.

“Put it _down_ ,” Metatron shouted, grabbing her arms and trying to wrestle it off her.

“Let go of me!” Uriel said, struggling to move the Book to its intended destination.  “I’m going to destroy it!  You can’t stop me!”

“Uriel, compose yourself!”

Uriel went slack, dropping the book.  It hit the floor with a ground-shaking _thump._  Metatron caught her as she collapsed to her knees, sobbing uncontrollably.

“He made me cast them out,” she cried.  “He made me do that and then He just _left._ I could feel their every emotion as their pages burned, that same fear and pain over and over, one after the other, and God said He would do something worse to _me_ if I didn’t cast them out!  And then they were just _gone_ , and the only way to live with myself was to make myself believe they deserved it, because they were all horrible anyway, and then that snake—”

“Uriel,” said Metatron, wiping her tears.

“That _snake_ —” she screamed.  “Does _that._ And proves himself more merciful than half the garrison.”  She finally looked up into Metatron’s eyes.  “And I’m supposed to just pretend everything is fine?”

She waved her hand, and the abused Book of Life, lying on the floor, went rigidly upright, pages whirring past like cards in a deck being shuffled, and then fell open to the page belonging to Uriel herself.

Metatron caught her hand and wrenched it away before she could rip the page out.  She broke free and tried again, but they pinned both her hands to the floor.

“Uriel.”

She let out an anguished cry, and her head thunked onto the floor.

The Metatron let her cry onto the tile, closing the Book of Life and hefting it back onto its podium.  The relic safe from her tantrum, they came back over and knelt beside her, putting an arm around her shoulders.

“Uriel,” said Metatron.  “He’s gone. There’s nothing to be done about it now.”

“He was the only one who loved me,” she said.  “Because everyone in the universe hates me.   _Everyone._  Even everyone in Heaven would rather risk being killed than stand me any longer, and I don’t know how to make them un-hate me, and—”

“Uriel, maybe you could start by not being such a _prick_ ,” Metatron snapped.

She scrunched her face angrily, crossing her arms and looking away.

“Look,” said Metatron more gently.  “I get it.  You think this hasn’t been hard on me?  The _Voice of God?_  To try and figure out what my purpose is now without Him?”

She sniffled.

“The past doesn’t have to matter, if we don’t want it to.  You asked what you’re supposed to do now without Him.   _Decide for yourself._ ”

“For myself?” she repeated, astonished.  

“Have you ever asked yourself…What do _you_ want to do, Uriel?  What kind of person do _you_ want to be?  Because He’s _gone._  There’s nobody to tell us not to.”

She hugged her arms more tightly about herself, casting a forlorn glance at the Book of Life.

* * *

Before going their separate ways, Aziraphale and Crowley asked Maltha what they should do.  Maltha told them they were free to do whatever they liked, because the natural order of the world had finally fallen apart, and they had no Gods or masters anymore. Aziraphale and Crowley had just been asking about her will if they should tell anyone what they had heard at the meeting, but they accepted the answer and went home to Soho while Maltha went back down to Hell.

They tried to watch telly, but neither absorbed any of it.  Eventually Aziraphale suggested they go for a drive to Mayfair, but Crowley reminded him he didn’t have the Bentley anymore. Aziraphale suggested they hop on the train and go somewhere to distract themselves for a few hours, but Crowley said he would rather die than be caught on public transportation.

They were saved from their idleness by a letter from Maltha, arriving a mere two hours after they had parted.

_Aziraphale and Crowley,_

_Do you have any information regarding the whereabouts of Angelo?  In the chaos of the raid, I lost track of him.  I have heard a suggestion that he went up to Earth.  I am asking the other field agents, but I suspect they are still mad at me, so I expect minimal cooperation from them._

_-Maltha_

“Oh, dear,” said Aziraphale.  “I hope he’s all right.”

They wrote back in the negative.  When Maltha’s response came, it read:

_Then would you be willing to come down to Hell for a few hours?  I am trying everything within my power to reduce Mykas’s distress, but nothing is working.  He is under control, but he is not happy._

“Oh dear,” Aziraphale repeated.  “That doesn’t sound good.”

“We should go,” said Crowley.

“You’re sure?” said Aziraphale.  “Nobody will force you if you would rather stay away.”

Crowley shook his head.  “Aziraphale, I remember what it was like to fall…He’s going to need all the support he can get.”

They packed their bags for a day trip and opened the circle back to Hell. Maltha met them in limbo with open arms.

“Thank you for coming,” she said, starting to lead them down.  “I think Mykas needs some sort of comfort I cannot provide.”

“What’s the matter with him?  Is he still ill from what was troubling him before the fall?” said Aziraphale.

Maltha shook her head.  “His bloodlust is gone, but it’s been an awful lot to take in.  The adrenaline rush from the raid on Heaven is finally wearing off, and he’s struggling to come to terms with what’s happened.  And I keep telling him that his confinement in the infirmary is temporary, but he doesn’t seem to believe it no matter who tells him.”

“He was kept confined in Heaven,” said Aziraphale.  “He’s scared you’ll do the same thing.”

“I know.  But I can’t let him go free until I’m sure he’s stable.”

Aziraphale nodded glumly.  “We’ll see what we can do.”

The trip down to Hell was quieter this time.  Everything seemed much calmer, the tension that had been building all vented at once.  Maltha took them to the third layer and waited outside the infirmary.

“I’ll stay out here,” she said.  “I don’t think he’ll want to see me again so soon.  Thank you, Aziraphale, Crowley.”

They went in.  A smattering of warrior angels lounged in various places in the lobby.

“Hello,” said Aziraphale tentatively.  “We’re here to talk to Mykas.”

“Go ahead,” said the one nearest the door.  “But if I hear you’re distressing him, I’ll remove you myself.”

“…Thank you.”

They went in.  Mykas was within, resting in a hospital bed with a blanket pulled up around him.  He still hadn’t managed to change his shape, and his eerie canine eyes snapped up to them as they entered.  He had a selection of parchment spread out on his lap and several broken pens scattered about.

And they could not help but notice the heavy, sigil-laden iron chain around his ankle.

“Aziraphale!” he said, tail wagging faintly.  “Crowley!”

“Hey,” said Crowley, seating himself beside the bed.  “How are you feeling?”

Mykas held his paws in front of him, picking at his claws nervously. “Better.”

“That’s great,” said Aziraphale.  

“Um…” said Mykas, lifting the leg that was bound in iron.  “Do you know when they might take this off?”

“I can’t imagine it’ll be too long,” Crowley tried.  “You did what they wanted you to in Heaven, and it’s not like you’ve done anything else, right?”

Mykas tapped his claws against each other.

“Ah…have you?”

Mykas flattened his ears and lowered his head.  “I bit Maltha.”

“Uh-oh,” said Aziraphale.  “Why’d you do that?”

Mykas wrung his hands.  “I-I was just caught up in everything that was happening, and I didn’t realise what I was doing, and I got scared when we were in Hell again…. She’s really mad at me, isn’t she?”

“Don’t worry about her,” said Crowley.  “What’s this you’re working on?”

Mykas picked up one of the pieces of parchment, which had some attempt at writing scrawled on it.  “I was trying to write letters.  Apologies to everyone that I hurt.”

Crowley leaned over and saw most of the attempts had been addressed to various members of Aziraphale’s legion of demons.

“That’s great,” said Crowley.  “I’m sure they’ll appreciate it.”

“I can’t write any to anyone who didn’t come back to life, though…”

“You could write one to Uriel and Metatron,” said Crowley.  “They’re still alive.”

“Hmmm…  No, I don’t think I will,” said Mykas.  “You shouldn’t apologise unless you’re actually sorry, you know?”

Aziraphale put a hand over his mouth to try and stop the laughter before it happened.

“That’s fair,” said Crowley, struggling to maintain a straight face. “So who are you writing to first?”

“Oryss.”

“Oh, that’s great.”

“But…”

“But?”

“My hands are too big for the pen.  Angelo usually does this…”

“I’ll write them, if you want to dictate to me,” Crowley offered.

“Really?” said Mykas, perking up.  “That would be great!”

Crowley picked up a parchment and one of the unbroken pens.

“Okay,” said Mykas.  “Write this down.  Dear Oryss, stop.  I wanted to apologise to you, stop.”

“Wait, wait, wait,” said Crowley.  “Why are you saying ‘stop’ like that?”

“Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do to end the sentence?”

“No, that’s just for telegrams.  Nobody’s used those for a while.  This is just a regular letter.”

“Oh.  It’s…been a while since I’ve done this.  Angelo usually handles the mail for me.”

“Have you…sent telegrams?”

“Yeah,” said Mykas with an enormous, toothy grin.  “Once.  It was super fun.  Okay, so write this down.  ‘Dear Oryss, I wanted to apologise to you.  You and Beth helped me at the store, and you cooked a nice meal, and I stabbed you.  That was not an appropriate way to thank you.  If you accept my apology, I would like to be friends with you, but if not, I understand, and I won’t bother you again.  Signed, Michael.  Mykas.’”

Crowley gave Mykas the letter back to sign his name, but his signature turned out illegible, so Crowley wrote _(Mykas, former archangel Michael)_ underneath of it so there would be no ambiguity.

Crowley took the letter out into the lobby and found the outbox on the empty receptionist’s desk, then sent the letter out.  “Okay,” he said, coming back in and picking up another parchment. “Another?”

“Yeah!” said Mykas.  “Write this: Dear Botis.  I am sorry I cut off your head.”  He paused.  “That seems like enough, doesn’t it?  Botis strikes me as a straightforward sort of guy.”

“All right,” said Crowley.  “I think he’ll like that.”

Mykas tried his very best to make his signature legible this time.  “I wish I had my seal,” said Mykas.  “But I think it’s still on my desk back in Heaven.”

“Your signature should be enough,” said Aziraphale.  “I think they’ll know it’s you.”

Crowley wrote under his signature in plain writing again, just to be sure. He went to send the letter out, only to see they had already gotten a response to their correspondence from Oryss. He brought it in and showed it to Mykas.

_Mykas:_

_Oryss is waiting for a bit to respond, but I think she understands.  I know in my heart she’ll come around right away if you come over for dinner and compliment her jollof rice.  And I’ll take us out to get our nails done._

_-Olivia_

Mykas held the letter to his chest like it was a treasure.  “Did you hear that?  We’re going to get our nails done.  …done how?”

“It’s when you paint them,” said Aziraphale.  “It’s very luxurious.”

“Oh, like yours!” said Mykas, obviously excited.

“Yes, exactly.”

“That’s great!”  He folded the letter up and handed Crowley another piece of parchment.  “Crowley, will you write one more?”

“All right,” he said, readying the pen.  “Go ahead.”

“Start this one, ‘Dear Crowley.’”

The pen froze on the page.  “You want me to transcribe my own letter?  You could just…say it to me.”

“No!” said Mykas, looking like he wanted to throw a fit.  “A letter is the proper way to do it!  I want to do it right!”

“All right,” said Crowley.  “Go ahead, then.”

“‘Dear Crowley, I wanted to apologise to you.  I am very sorry that I stabbed you, and I am very glad that Noah brought you back to life.  The world is better with you in it.  If you accept my apology, I would like to be friends with you.  I would like for you to be my demon mentor.’”

“Mentor?” said Crowley.

“You’re not supposed to talk while someone is transcribing!” said Mykas. “Finish it, ‘You are a cool guy. You can show this letter to Aziraphale too, because I should apologise to him as well.  Love, Mykas.’  Or maybe ‘Sincerely.’  Do you think ‘love’ would be all right?”

Mykas peered at him with genuine worry.

“I think either would be fine,” said Crowley with a smile.

“Okay.”

Crowley handed him the letter.  Mykas licked the enveloped, sealed it, and handed it back.

Crowley opened it and made a show of reading it.  “Wow, thanks, Mykas.  But what do you mean you want me to be your demon mentor?”

“Well,” said Mykas.  “I can’t lounge around in Heaven anymore, and I don’t think I’ll be able to go up to Earth, so I’m going to be spending a lot of time in Hell now.  So I need someone to show me where the best lounging spots are…And things like that.”

This was said with barely-contained tears.  Aziraphale said, “Maltha isn’t going to force you to stay in Hell.”

“Yes she is!” Mykas wailed.  “I already know that’s what’s going to happen!  Something like that always happens!  So don’t try and talk to me like I’m stupid!”

Aziraphale drew back.

“Ah…” said Crowley, “Okay then.  Well, once you’re well enough, I can show you where the best spot to go swimming is.”

“Swimming?”

“Yes.  There’s only one spot in all of Hell with liquid water the right temperature to swim in. It’s in the fourth circle.  We can have a day at the beach there.  The three of us and Angelo.”

Mykas burst into tears.

“Oh no, we don’t have to,” said Crowley.  “It was only a suggestion…”

“Angelo,” said Mykas, hiding his face.  “I can’t let him see me like this.  He ran away because he d-didn’t want to see me…Aziraphale, Crowley, do you think he’ll still love me?  Surely he won’t.  I’m awful like this.  How am I going to survive like this?  I’m horrible.”

“Hey,” said Crowley, daring to lay a hand on his arm.  “Mykas, every demon has had to go through this.”

Mykas sobbed anew on the word _demon_ , but Crowley continued on, “And you’re already off to a better start than most.  You have some of your angel friends here with you; they stepped out of line to save you. And you don’t have to be around the other archangels anymore.”

Mykas still looked sullen.  “But Hell is horrible,” he said.  “And everyone down here already hates me.  I mean, everyone is afraid of me.  No one will want to be my friend down here…  Even Angelo is too afraid to get near me…I’m going to just be alone here…in this horrid place.”

Aziraphale thought of Michael repeatedly asking to be transferred to Earth, and understood why he would hate Hell.  It was the same reason why Maltha would be dissatisfied with Hell after falling in love with the Earth and then being sent packing back down here. Michael had been deprived of the kind of stimulation he craved so much for millennia.

“I’m sure Angelo isn’t staying away because he hates you now,” said Aziraphale.  “He probably just got scared and hid somewhere.”

“That does sound like something he would do,” said Mykas with a sniffle.

“Come on,” Aziraphale said.  “It’s going to be all right.  Maltha is in charge of Hell now, not Satan.  Things are better now than they were when you came down to get Crowley out. It’s not so bad.”

“But Maltha hates me too,” cried Mykas.  “Everyone hates me, and it’s my fault.”

“Oh come on,” said Aziraphale.  “Now you’re just being melodramatic.”

Crowley made a “cut it out” motion with his hand.  Aziraphale eased back.  “Ah…I mean, you’ll see, Mykas.  Angels and demons don’t have to fight the same way they used to.  The lines are blurring.  I’m sure Angelo will still stay with you.”

“Thank you for coming down to visit me,” said Mykas.  “Now, please just leave me alone.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yeah.”

“All right.  But we can come back later if you want.”

Mykas pulled the blanket up over his head as they left.

“That could have gone better,” said Aziraphale out in the lobby.

“Could have gone a lot worse, too,” said Crowley.  “I think he just needs time to adjust.  He…oh my somebody, is there going to be a fight right here in the lobby?”

This last exclamation was prompted by the sudden realization that Maltha, still loitering by the main entrance, was standing facing the archangel Victoria.  Raphael was hovering by her side, as though afraid to get between them.

Maltha stuck her hand out, and Victoria shook it.

“Oh,” said Crowley with a breath of relief.  “Oh, good.”

Maltha went back outside.  Victoria and Raphael came over.  And when they both looked at Crowley, they began to look shame-faced.

Suddenly remembering their behaviour in the ventures leading up to this whole debacle, Crowley crossed his arms and tapped his foot.

“Er,” said Victoria, grimacing.  “Hi, Crowley, I think the last time I saw you was…”

“When you came over to my flat to call me a _vile creature_ ,” said Crowley, and then to Raphael, “And _you_ , lying about me to Gabriel right in front of me. You nearly got me killed or worse.”

Raphael rubbed the back of his head.  “Ah…sorry about that, Crowley.  It was the best plan I could come up with.  I really thought we could get this all sorted out before you came back from vacation…”

“I’m really sorry, too,” said Victoria.  “I…”  She held her hand out.  “I want to make it up to you, Crowley.  And I’m an archangel now, so there’s more things I can do.  If you need anything, let me know, okay?”

“All right, I guess,” said Crowley, shaking her hand.  “The proverbial friends in high places, I suppose.”

“I wasn’t lying about wanting to make it up to you after this was all over,” said Raphael.  “I meant that.  Can you and I talk up on Earth later?  We just came down here to see Mykas.”

“Sure,” said Crowley.  “That’s why we’re here, too.”

“How is he?” said Victoria.

“He seems a little better,” said Crowley.  “He just needs some time to adjust.  I think he’ll be glad to see you.”

“Then we’d better go in,” said Raphael.  “I mean it, Crowley.  Later. I’ll send you a letter.”

Aziraphale and Crowley stepped back to allow them entry.

“What do you think Raphael has for you?” said Aziraphale.  “To make it up to you?”

“I don’t know,” said Crowley.  “But it’d better be good.”

* * *

Raphael and Mykas must have made up without Raphael getting mauled, as evidenced by the fact that Raphael was still alive enough to send a letter to Crowley asking him to meet him under the M25.

“Wonder who told him the name of the highway,” said Crowley.  “Can’t imagine he gets down to Earth often enough to know the roads.  Oh, he said you can come too, Aziraphale.”

Luckily it was good weather for once.  Aziraphale and Crowley ended up flying over, simply because Aziraphale could take the bickering about the bus no longer and gave up trying to convince Crowley public transportation didn’t have it out for him.

They loitered around the spot Raphael had specified at the time specified. Five minutes. Ten minutes. Fifteen…

Finally: a black car looped off the road and came around towards them.

“Hey!” said Crowley, hands on his head, a big smile breaking over his face. “It’s the Bentley!  I don’t believe it!”

The Bentley was still a little beat up where it crashed into the gates, but it was moving.

“Who’s driving it?” said Aziraphale.  “I’m positive Raphael has never used a car before.”

“Are they…ah…going to stop?” said Crowley when the car showed no signs of slowing down even as it entered the proximity of one of the cement support pillars.

The Bentley hit it going about twenty, not enough to cause more damage to the frame, but just enough to make Crowley wince.

“Goodness,” said Aziraphale, jogging over.  “Come on.”

Two figures emerged from the vehicle: Raphael from the passenger’s side, and in the driver’s...

Crowley stopped dead in his tracks. Ramial got out and ran to the front, fussing and wringing her hands.

“Oh no,” she said. “I’ve ruined it.  I’ve ruined everything!”

She looked over and saw Crowley staring at her.

“Ramial?” he said.

She bit her lip.  “I’m so sorry!”

Dumbfounded, Crowley’s gaze roved over his car, then back to her face. “Who…Who taught you how to drive?” was what he managed.

Ramial looked at him with watery eyes.  “Nobody.  I’ve never driven before.”

Tears were brimming in Crowley’s eyes now.  “It shows,” he choked out.

“I’m sorry I wrecked it even more,” said Ramial, sniffling. “I wanted to…I thought if I brought it back down…If I drove it right to you…”

“First time I drove it I flipped it over,” said Crowley, wet tracks spilling down his cheeks now.  “So you did a decent enough job.”

“Good,” said Ramial, lip quavering.  “Cralael.”

“It’s…It’s Crowley now.”

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

Ramial ran over and body-slammed him with a hug.  Crowley just barely managed to stay on his feet.  Ramial squeezed him.

“I’m so sorry,” Ramial sobbed.  “I’m so sorry it took me so long to find you.  But I kept my promise.  I never once forgot.  I thought about you every day.”

Crowley looked over Ramial’s shoulder to see Raphael leaning on the roof of the Bentley, a self-satisfied look on his face.  As Ramial cried on his shoulder, Crowley flashed the archangel a quick thumbs-up behind her back.

“Sorry,” said Ramial, drawing back, wiping her face.  “Sorry.  I told myself I wouldn’t lose it, and here I am.”

“It’s nice to see you again,” said Crowley.  “Under better circumstances.”

“I’m so sorry for what I did,” said Ramial.  “They told me afterwards why that happened when I touched you.  If I had known, I wouldn’t have.  I wouldn’t ever touch you again if it meant hurting you like that.”

“Well, don’t worry,” said Crowley, holding out his hand.  “You can touch me.”

She took his hand.

“Crowley,” said Raphael.  “There’s something Ramial and I would like to offer you.”

“All right.  What’s that?”

Raphael came over and stood by Ramial.  Before he could speak, Ramial broke in, “We can make you an angel again.”

Crowley blinked at her.

“We can try,” Raphael said gently.  “I’d gladly accept you back into my ranks.  I know a lot of angels would be happy to see you as a real healer again.”

Crowley stared at the two of them.  “But...  But I’m a demon.  I mean, I have a commendation, but it was never official, because…well, I mean, you can’t really _do_ that.  My page is gone from the Book of Life.  You can’t un-burn it.”

“You don’t have to give us an answer right now,” said Raphael.  “You can take some time to think about it. But it’s a real possibility.  I’ve already talked to Uriel, and she’s willing to try and write you back into the Book of Life.  We don’t know for sure if it’ll work, but…”

Crowley gaped at him.  Raphael smiled hopefully.

“ _Uriel_ said that?” said Crowley.

“Shocking, I know.”

“ _Uriel?_ ”

“Yes.”

“We _are_ thinking of the same Uriel, right? Brown hair, about yea high, constantly looks low-level pissed…”

Ramial squeezed his hand.  “What can we say, Crowley?  You make quite an impression.”

* * *

Sylvia was not looking forward to this.

For the first time in weeks, she stood on the front doorstep of the house she and Adramelech rented together, nervous to see him in a way she hadn’t been in millennia.  She somehow managed a knock.

She immediately heard things slamming around inside, frustrated sounds making their way steadily towards the door.  When it cracked open, a small dog bolted out, yipping and jumping on Sylvia excitedly.

“Hey, girl!” said Sylvia, trying to pet the dog, but it was full of too much energy and motion to sit still for long enough.

She looked up when she sensed the presence in the doorway.  Adramelech stood there with his phone against his face, looking astonished.  He was wearing a shade of eyeshadow Sylvia had never seen before, an electric blue that stood out vividly on his brown skin.

That wasn’t good.  Going out and buying new makeup was usually what Adramelech did when he was feeling really awful.

“Botis, I’ll call you back,” Adramelech said, then hung up his phone.

“Hi,” said Sylvia tentatively.

“Wh-where have you been?” said Adramelech, sounding like he was on the verge of blubbering.

Sylvia stuck her hands in her pockets, kicking a rock with her foot. “I…Ah…had something I needed to do…with Maltha.”

“ _That_ ,” said Adramelech. “When I heard what had happened, I had my suspicions, but I didn’t think you’d actually…”

“So you…ah…heard about it, then?” said Sylvia sheepishly.

“It was very brave,” said Adramelech woodenly.

Sylvia sighed.  “Come on, Adra, I know that’s not what you want to say about it.”

Adramelech’s lip quivered, then he howled, “I was _so worried_ about you!  Why didn’t you tell me where you had gone?”

“Maltha insisted we keep it under wraps,” said Sylvia.  “It was of the utmost importance all our activities be kept secret.  It would have been a disaster if word had gotten out beforehand.”

Adramelech wiped his face.

“You’re smudging your makeup,” said Sylvia.

“Oh, so I am,” said Adramelech with a sniffle.

“I see you finally managed to find a shade that matches your wings.”

He crossed his arms.  “So what happened, Sylvia?  Everyone in creation knows about the attack on Heaven by now, but nobody can seem to figure out what went wrong.”

“Maltha pulled out,” said Sylvia.  “Nobody can figure out why.  She was really spooked.  Some of the other angels are angry at her for pulling the plug early.  Personally I’m more scared of whatever could scare _her_ so bad, and I’m glad she pulled us out.”

Their dog, who had been circling around in the yard, came back and jumped on Sylvia again.

“Can I come in instead of standing on the stoop?” said Sylvia hesitantly.

Adramelech sighed and drew the door open fully.  Sylvia hung her coat on the hook and kicked her shoes off.

“Adra, this place is a mess,” she tutted as she came in.  “Now I have to clean this all up.”

She turned back to see that Adramelech was still hugging his arms to himself by the door.  His mascara had smudged.

Sylvia sighed and went over to him.  “Come on, you big baby.  I was only gone for a little bit.  Were you really that worried about me?”

“Of course I was,” he snapped.  “Don’t act like it’s my fault somehow.”

“Okay,” said Sylvia.  She reached down and took both of his hands in hers.  “Adramelech, I’m sorry.  I know it wasn’t fair to up and disappear on you like that, even for a good reason, and you must have been upset by it.  I’m sorry.  I’m back now, and I’ll keep you in the loop from now on.  Okay?”

He nodded.

“Now, how about we have a nice cuppa, hm?  I’ll even use that wretched coffee machine that you’re so wild about.”

“Actually, now that you’re back, I was hoping you could help me with something.” He produced a piece of infernal parchment.

“What’s that?”

“Maltha’s looking for Angelo.  Apparently he’s missing.  I’m sure Michael—or whatever his name is now—really misses him.  And I think I know where he might be.  Will you help me go look for him?”

Sylvia smiled at him.  “I’m glad to back.  I’ll do anything with you.”

It took some searching, but they did find Angelo eventually.  He was sulking under an apple tree in a certain spot with his head buried in his knees.

Adramelech, who had been perching in the tree above him, flapped down but bungled the landing, falling face-first into the dirt.  Sylvia descended a bit more gracefully.  Angelo looked up at the two of them with apprehension.

After Adramelech had righted himself and dusted himself off, he squatted next to the angel.  “Been quite a while since we’ve been here, hasn’t it?  Millennia.”

“Go away, you accursed bird,” said Angelo miserably.

“Hah,” said Adramelech, giving him a little punch on the arm.  “Sorry, that won’t work this time.  At least you remembered I’m not a chicken this time though, right?”

“Angelo, everyone’s looking for you,” said Sylvia.

Angelo hugged more tightly to himself.  “I’m a coward.  I ran as soon as Michael left.”

“You’re not a coward.  No one should have expected you to stay in Hell by yourself.”

“I ran and even when Michael came back I was still too afraid to go to him.”

“You can go now,” said Adramelech, touching his shoulder gently. “We can escort you down.  There’s nothing to be afraid of.  We’ll make sure you get there safely.”

“That’s not what I mean,” said Angelo.

Adramelech sighed and plopped down.  “He’s not going to be that different, Angelo.  You might actually like him better now.”

“I’m so afraid,” said Angelo.  “I’m so afraid that I’ve lost him.  I can’t even think about the possibility.  I don’t even want to go find out.  What if…what if I don’t love him anymore?  What if _he_ doesn’t love _me_ anymore?  Can an angel and a demon really do that?  Can a little clerical angel like me really be with an archdemon?”

“Angelo,” said Adramelech.  “What do you think we’ve all been doing?  Me and Sylvia care for each other.  Aziraphale and Crowley care for each other.  Why do you think you and Michael won’t be able to do it?”

“I’m just so scared it won’t work out like that,” said Angelo.  “And then what happens?”

“Come on, get up,” said Sylvia grabbing his arm.  “What kind of talk is that?  Michael is alone in Hell right now and he needs your help.  He’s always been there for you, hasn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“Then you need to do the same!  You can’t just mope around being afraid of what might happen.”

“Some things you can’t hide from,” said Adramelech.  “You need to just give it a try.”

Angelo sighed, looking worried.  But he looked up and made eye contact for the first time.  “You said you would escort me down?”

* * *

They handed Angelo off to Maltha in limbo.  Maltha offered to give Adramelech a promotion for his good work. He politely declined, saying he thought promotions in Hell were just for show.  Maltha was a bit surprised at this, because she also thought they were just for show, but she had thought everything Adramelech did was for show and therefore he would love it.  Maltha offered to make Sylvia an honourary demon solely for the sake of also offering her a promotion, but she also politely declined.

The pair went back up to Earth, and Maltha took Angelo down further into Hell.

“How are you doing, Angelo?” Maltha asked him.

“I’m fine,” he answered shame-facedly.  “I just hid while everyone else risked their lives.”

He felt a hand on his shoulder, and Maltha circled around to stand in front of him.  “Angelo. Come on.”

“All right,” he said. “I’m not fine.  I’m scared as Hell.  I’m scared this won’t go anything at all like I imagine it, and my best friend of six-thousand years is gone.”

She squeezed his shoulder.  “It doesn’t change you as much you think, Angelo.  Falling.  You’ll get him back.  There will be differences you’ll have to work out over time, but he’s still in there. Which is more than we can say for his original fate.”

Angelo looked away.  “I know. I suppose I should thank you.  You didn’t have to risk yourself to save him, but you did anyway.”

“Angelo, do you remember when I diagnosed Michael, you demanded to know why I’d want to help him?”

“Yeah.  You were enemies.  It didn’t make sense.”

“I am a _doctor,_ Angelo,” she said, eyes sparkling.  “I’ve always been a doctor.  It’s what I love to do most.”

A demonic figure hobbled towards them as they spoke.  Maltha sighed and turned away from Angelo to face the newcomer.

Duke Jezebel stood in front of them, looking haggard and beaten.  “You.”

She had definitely seen better days.  Her injuries inflicted by Mammon had begun to fester, and the fresh ones overtop of them from Botis looked infected.  Not even Angelo found Jezebel frightening in this state.

“Jezebel,” said Maltha pitifully.

Angry, indignant, Jezebel slowly lowered herself down to one knee in front of Maltha, bowing her head.

Maltha smiled, putting a hand on her head.  “There.  That wasn’t so hard now, was it?”

“I beg of your mercy,” said Jezebel.  “Otherwise I will be dead within a week.”

“Of course,” said Maltha.  “Just one thing first.  I want you to apologise to Angelo here.”

Her eyes shifted over to Angelo.  “ _Him?_ ”

“You threatened him on the way down.”

“For which I have already been punished.”

“Just two little words, Jezebel.  That’s all.”

“But he is an angel!” Jezebel said.  “And not even a powerful one!  He’s not important!  He’s nothing!”

“He is my friend,” said Maltha.  “And a very brave angel, and if you think you can get out of this with your lordly dignity intact, you’re wrong.  Either apologise to him, or go die of your wounds.  It’s that simple.”

Grudgingly, Jezebel bowed her head to Angelo.  “I’m sorry.”

“There,” said Maltha.  “Thank you. Go wait for me in the infirmary. I’ll meet you down there after I see Angelo off.”

Jezebel rose and limped away.

When she was out of sight, Angelo said tentatively, “Maltha, do you…really consider me your friend?”

“Perhaps that was a bit presumptuous of me,” said Maltha.  “But I’d love to have your friendship, if you’ll give it to me.”

Angelo refused to meet her eyes.  “I’m not brave.”

“Look at me.”

He did.

“You came into Hell without Michael, to face demons you knew could crush you, to supplicate to the ruler of Hell, just for a chance to get near Michael to help him.  That is incredibly brave.”

Angelo flushed.

“Bravery isn’t not having fear, Angelo.  It’s facing your fears.  Which you’re doing right now. Now, I need you to do something for me.  I have an important job for you.”

“Okay…what’s that?”

“Mykas is going to want to go up to Earth as soon as he can.  And I want to let him roam free to his heart’s content. I need someone to keep an eye on him. Just watch him, make sure he behaves himself, doesn’t hurt anyone, and report back to me if he starts showing symptoms again.  Can I count on you?”

Angelo nodded unsurely.  “Yes. Yes, I can do that.”

“Then let’s go,” said Maltha.  “I’m sure he’s eager to see you.”

A few layers down, Mykas was having a worse time than Angelo.

“Come _on,”_ said Beth.  “I’m positive you can do it.  Just keep trying.”

“Show him again,” said Kyleth.

Botis took his boots off.  “Okay.  Are you watching?”

Mykas nodded vigorously.

Botis’s shape wavered, and after a second, there was a huge, fat walrus standing where he had been.

“See, nothing to it!” said Kyleth, gesturing to Botis grandly. “Easy as pie!”

“There you have it!” said Beth, joining Kyleth.  “At this point even _I_ could do it!”

“Try it again, sir, I’m sure you’ll get it eventually,” said the walrus with Botis’s voice.

Mammon, lurking in the background like a babysitter, gave a low of encouragement.

Mykas strained and growled, but could not force his shape to change in the slightest.  Botis shifted back and forth between his human and bestial forms to try and encourage him, to no success.

“It’s no use,” said Mykas, plopping down on his rump.  “I’m going to be stuck like this forever.  Not that it makes much difference.”

“Aw, don’t say that, sir,” said Botis.  “You can’t go up to Earth looking like that!  You just need to master _one_ form that won’t alarm the humans.  It doesn’t have to be both!”

“It is not uncommon for demons to struggle controlling their form,” said Mammon.

“Is that why you stay like that instead of human form?” said Beth.

Mammon flared her nostrils.  “…No. I was merely giving Mykas some encouragement that he is in good company.”

“You’re a dog of some sort, I’m positive,” said Beth.  “Try that.  It might be easier than trying to shift all the way to human.  You’re…mostly there already.”

Mykas looked at them with watery eyes.  Then, his ears perked up as he saw someone walking towards them behind Botis and Kyleth.

“Angelo?” said Mykas, getting to his feet and trotting over. “Angelo? Angelo?”

“Hi,” said Angelo.

Mykas started forwards with arms open, then stopped, wringing his hands. “Angelo, I…  Well, I don’t want us to be together if you’re afraid of me.  I know I’m—Well, I know with everything that’s happened—”

“I’m not afraid of you, you big dope,” said Angelo tearfully.  “I’m afraid of _losing_ you.  That’s exactly something you would say.  God, does that sound just like you.”

Mykas dashed forwards, nearly knocking Angelo over in his haste to embrace him.  But the archdemon tempered his enthusiasm, enough that his arms came around the small angel with enough gentleness that he was merely squeezed.

“I’m so glad you came down to see me,” said Mykas.

“I’m glad I did, too,” said Angelo.

“Hey, look, you did it!” said Kyleth.

Mykas withdrew and looked down at his body, which was now almost entirely human.

“Hey!” he said, with a smile that still had just too many sharp teeth. “Hey!”  

He scooped Angelo up and twirled him.  Angelo laughed, trying not to cry.

“This is great,” said Mykas.  “Great…”

“You know,” said Angelo.  “I’ve been thinking, and I know I didn’t like it at first, but the Earth has been growing on me.  I don’t think it’d be so bad if I was there with…with someone that I loved.”

Mykas no longer had a tail, but if he did, it would have been wagging.  In the background, Beth snuck in a few more of all the kisses she had lost from Maltha.

* * *

It took five days of searching, two of which were spent tracking down a demon named Ritze, to find the demon Yulera.  She was very well hidden.  She was also very well fortified.  Her hideout had been protected with a smattering of anti-demon sigils, so Aziraphale eventually had to be the one to go in while Crowley waited outside.  Aziraphale was the less skilled of the two at negotiation, so it was difficult to convince her to come out with just him and Crowley yelling an occasional addition down the mouth of the entryway.  This was doubly true after Aziraphale recognised the book on her shelf, and demanded to know how she had gotten _his_ copy of the Key of Solomon.

“Just let her keep it!” Crowley shouted.  “I’m sure you can find another one!  She’s making better use of it than you are!”

“But this one is signed by the author!”

Eventually they coaxed her out, but their progress was all erased when Yulera saw that Crowley was the same demon she had confronted in the first layer and ran back in, convinced he was going to retaliate.

“I didn’t mean it!” she yelled out.  “I could never kill anyone!  I’m too much of a coward!  Now leave me alone!”

A few more hours of pushing and pulling, and they convinced her to come out again.  Their progress was all erased a third time when she found out Kabata was dead and ran back inside, crying.

They left her alone and came back the next day, spending several more hours to successfully coax her out again.

She stood in the entryway of her tunnel, arms crossed.  “What exactly is it you two want?”

“We want you to come up to Earth with us,” said Crowley.

“Why would I do that!”

“Kabata said you would like it,” said Crowley.

“And you killed him!” said Yulera.

Aziraphale laughed.  “ _We_ didn’t kill him!  Oh my Heavens.”

Yulera glared at him.

“He was a terrible person, you know.  Kabata.”

“He was the only one who ever gave me courage!” Yulera yelled.  “Why did you come all the way down here just to speak ill of him to my face?”

“We came down here to fulfill his last request,” said Crowley.  “Which you’re…you know, not being very helpful with.”

“You could be tricking me!” said Yulera.  “How do I know you ever even talked to him?”

“His favourite was the cockatrice,” said Crowley.

Yulera blinked at him.

“Out of the bestiary.  His favourite was the cockatrice.”

Yulera burst into tears.  “It would be the cockatrice.  Of course it was the cockatrice.”

“Oh my word,” said Crowley.

Yulera collapsed to her knees, crying.  “He’s gone!  I’ll never see him again!  What did I do to deserve this?”

Aziraphale snuck past her and slipped into her hideout.  She turned around, tears drying instantly. “Hey!  What are you doing in there?”

She ran in to follow him.  Crowley heard the sounds of a scuffle.  And then a second later, Aziraphale’s footsteps pounded back up the exit, and he heard the angel shout, “Crowley, catch!”

He held his hands out just in time to catch the Key of Solomon as Aziraphale chucked it at him.

“That’s mine!” Yulera yelled.  “Kabata gave it to me!  Give it back!”

Aziraphale charged out full speed, Yulera right behind him. Remembering what Yulera had done to him earlier, Crowley saw the fire in her eye and said, “ _Oh shit._ ”

“Run!” said Aziraphale, pushing him.  “Let’s go!”

All three of them pulled their wings out, and the chase was on.

Crowley tossed the book back to Aziraphale when Yulera threatened to reach him, and she darted towards the angel to try and pluck it from his hands, but he tossed it back to Crowley over her head.

“Give it back!”

Yulera chased them all the way up to limbo, where Crowley handed the book off to Aziraphale, and Aziraphale pumped his wings to get up to the exit of Hell.

Yulera folded her wings in and looked up at the cavern ceiling forlornly.  Crowley, still hovering by the exit, shouted down to her, “Come on, don’t you want to catch up?”

“Give it back!” she said.  “It’s all I have left of him!”

“Come up here and take it back!”

“I can’t go up there,” said Yulera, crying again.  “It’s too scary.”

“Oh, bollox,” said Crowley.  “Nothing up here is half as scary as the first circle of Hell, and you braved that perfectly fine.”

He flew up into the ceiling, disappearing.  Yulera watched him go unsurely.

Crowley popped his head out from the ground, dragging himself up out of the exit to Hell.  Aziraphale was still waiting nearby, the book in his hands.

Crowley looked at the scene.  They were on a grassy hill, filled to the brim with beautiful flowers of every kind, rolling under a gentle breeze as far as the eye could see.  They stretched all the way up to a mountain in the distance that rose to pierce the sky, majestic clouds drifting around the top.

“Oh, yeah,” said Crowley.  “This’ll do it.”

Yulera’s upper body appeared from the hole in the ground, blinking in the bright light, peeking out like a groundhog.

“Well?” said Crowley.

Yulera pulled herself up and out of the hole, crawling forward in the grass.  She looked around at the flowers, the mountain, the blue sky, absolutely dumbfounded.

“How do you like it?” said Crowley.  

She just stared at the grass, turning over a flower in her hand.  A tear dripped down from her eye.  “This is…beautiful.”  She looked up at them.  “This was here the whole time?”

Crowley nodded.

Someone shouted in the distance.  Aziraphale and Crowley turned to see a faint brown shape moving through the tall grass, tail stuck up like a shark fin.  When it was close enough, it resolved into the shape of an enormous dog, bounding through the undergrowth with a mouthful of flowers, holding them like a bouquet.

The dog barreled into Aziraphale full speed, knocking him over.  Yulera seemed startled and backed away, but did not retreat back down to Hell.

“Aziraphale,” said a muffled voice from the dog’s mouth, and it dropped the flowers.  “I picked these for you.”

“M-Mykas?” said Aziraphale.

The dog’s tail wagged furiously, its mouth panting open and its tongue lolling. “Yeah!”

“Er…”  Aziraphale gave him a scratch behind the ear.  “Nice to see you.  Can you let me up, please?”

“Sorry.”

The dog removed its bulk from him, circling around.  Angelo appeared a ways off, slogging through the weeds, waving to them, looking tired.

“He’s coming,” said Mykas, laying down and flattening a patch of grass. “He just has a hard time keeping up.”

Angelo paused his advance, his hands on his knees.

“You okay?” Mykas shouted to him.

Angelo gave a distant thumbs-up.  “Just takes a bit of getting used to!” he yelled back.

Mykas rolled around in the grass, getting petals and clumps of green stuck all in his fur, letting out satisfied sounds.

Yulera had not moved.  She was still sitting on her knees.  Perhaps feeling soft grass on her skin for the first time was too much for her.

Crowley got down and sat cross-legged, watching Mykas indulge himself, stretching and running about in the vegetation.  “You know, Aziraphale, I’ve been thinking about Raphael’s offer. And I think I’m going to turn it down.”

Aziraphale sat next to him, ripping grass up idly. “Why’s that?”

Crowley looked up at the sky.  “There’s no reason I can’t rekindle my friendship with Ramial as a demon. Cralael was who I was before the fall, but…he’s gone now.  There’s no sense in trying to get him back, to try and be who I used to be.   _This_ is who I am now.  And I wouldn’t trade any of this for all of Heaven.”

Aziraphale leaned his head onto Crowley’s shoulder.  “Likewise, my dear.”

Mykas, covered in grass and tail wagging, sat at Aziraphale’s feet, looking at Yulera.  “Who’s this?”

“She’s just experiencing Earth for the first time,” said Aziraphale, not really answering him.

Mykas trotted over and tucked a flower into her hair.  “Welcome to Earth,” he said.

Yulera finally stood, facing away from them, looking towards the distance, the mountain and the sky and the soaring space, how it was somehow both empty but so full at the same time, the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. Her heart was filled with a love that she had never felt before.  And she went forwards, almost falling over the unfamiliar terrain, off into this brand new world filled with so many amazing things waiting for anyone who wanted to come see them.

* * *

If you want to imagine a future, imagine a wrathful queen, finally pacified in the arms of her lover.  Imagine an abused little boy...no, a prince…no, imagine a king, a ruler who governs with such grace and wisdom that even the beasts locked away in the pits of Hell grow to love and respect him.  Imagine two leaders finally learning to think for themselves after 6,000 years, discovering gentleness that had not previously been allowed.  Imagine a warrior finally resting in the peace he had secretly desired since the beginning of time.  Imagine a world where free will is the rule of law, one created to be someone’s toy now left to its own devices to heal.  Imagine two beings, lovers and best friends, hand in hand in a park with a duck pond, fear fading with the realisation that they are safe, truly safe and free, in a universe of their own.  And imagine that planet, spinning on and on of its own accord, forever.

* * *

『 THE END 』


End file.
